


A Mysterious Blue Aura

by Royal_Prussian_Fox



Category: Pocket Monsters SPECIAL | Pokemon Adventures
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, CharmingCriminalShipping, F/M, Slow Burn, Suggestive Themes, idk PokeSpe fandom is weird, including me, is apparently the ship name?, they're all adults
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 06:48:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 37,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14491197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Royal_Prussian_Fox/pseuds/Royal_Prussian_Fox
Summary: Interpol runs across The Water Thief, and Blake meets his match. In more ways than one.





	1. Stealing the Light

**Author's Note:**

> I was all ready to write a story about Blue and Silver, and then what came out was... not that. Enjoy, I guess?
> 
> Edit: So apparently I lied and this isn't a one-shot anymore. Wow! I surprised even myself. I plan on there being 19 chapters. For those of you who read the first version, don't fret! Those sections are coming back (gently edited) as chapters 1, 3, 7, 9, and 11. As my first multi-chapter work, hopefully the entire thing doesn't collapse in a flaming ball of flame-y flame.
> 
> Comments always appreciated.

"This is the sitting room," Sebastian announces, gesturing through an open door.

Blake peers inside. There's a pair of chairs, upholstered in green fabric, presumably for the aforementioned sitting. He nods to show they can move on.

Sebastian proceeds down the hall to the next door. "And this is the tea room," he says, gently pushing the door open. Blake peers inside. There's a pair of chairs, identical to the last pair, except they're upholstered in red fabric instead of green.

Y taps her pen against her notepad. "So it's like a second sitting room," she says.

"I beg your pardon, Ms. Y, but that is inaccurate," Sebastian says. "A sitting room is for sitting. This is the tea room. It is for sitting and having tea."

"Glad I got that cleared up," she grumbles.

"Indeed, the second sitting room you are referring to is here," Sebastian tells them, opening a door across the hall. Inside are a pair of chairs, identical to the others, except the upholstery is black. Blake looks into the other rooms, just to make sure he isn't hallucinating. He isn't. He's not sure whether he's relieved or not.

"Then, of course, there is the anteroom. It is a cozy little space where you can sit while the sitting room is in use. And the last of the rooms in this wing is the waiting room, where you can sit and wait while the anteroom is occupied."

Blake tries to look like he's paying attention. Next to him, Y is tapping her foot impatiently.

"Do Mr. Blake and Ms. Y have a thorough comprehension of this wing's layout?"

Blake nudges Y with his elbow. She automatically flips her notepad to a new page. Blake nods professionally. "I believe we understand. To summarize, the sitting rooms are in this wing."

Sebastian frowns. "That is incorrect, Mr. Blake. Only two of the rooms, as such, can properly be considered sitting rooms."

Y loudly clicks the button on her pen.

"Moreover, there are additional sitting rooms located throughout the remainder of the estate."

Blake grinds his teeth. "More sitting rooms. Right."

"Sebastian?" Platinum calls out, descending the staircase at the end of the hall. "How is everything? Have you shown our guests from Interpol the estate?"

"We have only just completed touring three of the five wings of the second floor, milady."

"How much of the estate is left?" Blake dares to ask.

"The portions of the estate still remaining, Mr. Blake, are merely the remainder of the second floor, the third and fourth floors, the attic, the cellars, and the guest villa."

"Do not forget about the servants' quarters."

"Ah, of course, milady," Sebastian says. "The portions of the estate still remaining are merely the remainder of the second floor, the third and fourth floors, the attic —"

"We understand," Blake interrupts. "Y has already noted everything down."

Y raises her eyebrows. Blake steps on her foot. Y furiously nods her head.

Platinum raises a considering finger to her chin. "Sebastian, now that my appointment is finished, I believe I am capable of showing our guests the remainder of the estate. In the meantime, would you terribly mind preparing a pot of tea?"

Sebastian bows. "Not at all, milady. Which room shall you take your tea in today?"

Platinum is silent for several moments, apparently considering her options. "Perhaps the sitting room of the sun," she finally decides.

"The sitting room of the rising sun, or the sitting room of the setting sun?"

"Rising, if you please. Thank you very much, Sebastian," Platinum smiles. Sebastian bows, then disappears down a staircase behind them. "Now, where should we begin? Perhaps we shall tour the sitting rooms on the third floor next."

"Actually," Blake interrupts her, before they're introduced to what would quite possibly be the hundredth sitting room they've seen today. "We're more interested in the letter you received. The one you say promises a theft from your estate?"

"Ah, of course," Platinum agrees. She reaches into a handbag, then withdraws a postcard from inside. "Here it is."

Blake takes the postcard. On the front is an aerial photograph of Sandgem Town. Blake flips it over. There are five lines of loopy handwriting that look like they've been drawn by a lovesick schoolgirl:

_ If I steal your heart, will it still grow fonder? _

_ But what if Sandgem Town loses its luster? _

_ Jewels do not shine when the light is yonder. _

_ Love, _

_ The Water Thief _

Blake stares at the writing, unsuccessfully attempting to process it. "What is this supposed to be?" he demands.

"I don't know," Y says from beside him. "That's not even a proper rhyme scheme."

"Oh, you noticed as well?" Platinum exclaims. "It has been bothering me for the longest time."

"What? No, the rhyme doesn't matter," Blake interjects. "How do you know the sender is planning to steal something?"

Platinum tilts her head. "It's not obvious? Well, the first line is talking about stealing something. The second refers to luster, which I assume to be the Lustrous Orb that the Berlitz family has passed down for generations. And the third is a time. I presume it to be tonight, when the sky is cloudy and the moon is still new; thus, the light being yonder."

Y raises an eyebrow. "I never would have figured all that out in a million years."

"Why, thank you," Platinum giggles. "It was quite the charming little puzzle. If only I received one in the mail every day."

"A postcard that threatens to rob you," Blake reminds her.

"Oh. Yes, it does do that. That part is less exhilarating."

Blake crosses his arms. "So where is this Lustrous Orb?"

"In a sitting room," Y mutters under her breath. Blake steps on her foot again.

"That is the interesting point," Platinum says, and leads them down a staircase and down a hall into a room that is decidedly not a sitting room. The floor is stone and the room is as large and secure as a bank vault. "As you can see, this room is outfitted with the latest in security technology. Additionally, there are no windows, so the only possible entrances are from elsewhere inside the estate."

"And the orb?" Blake asks her.

"Inside this safe," Platinum says, gesturing to a metal box embedded in the wall. "It's connected to heat, motion, and weight sensors."

Y whistles. "You've spared no expense."

"Money is no object. Given all the precautions we've taken, I would not consider it likely that such a theft would be successful. But seeing as the thief was bold enough to send a warning in advance…" Platinum trails off. "It is either confidence or hubris. Regardless, it cannot hurt to be too careful, and that is why I have requested Interpol's presence."

"You've done the responsible thing," Blake tells her. "We'll stand guard tonight, and if this thief shows up, we'll nab them. You can trust Interpol to get the job done."

The hours pass. The sun sets, and the moon rises. The clock ticks past midnight, then past one.

"You think they're going to show?" Y wonders.

Blake leans up against the wall. He watches the safe with eagle eyes. "There's lots of time until the sun rises. We'll have to keep watch until then."

Y tuts. "I wish criminals would be more considerate of other people's time."

"And I want a beach resort in Undella Town. We'll just have to be patient. If they show up, we'll be —"

The room goes dark. Sirens blare.

"What the —!" Y's voice shouts.

Blake sprints toward the safe. It is fifteen steps away walking, and only seven at a run. He is one step away when the lights turn back on. The safe is open. The Lustrous Orb is gone.

Blake's gaze darts around the room. Nothing looks out of place. There is nobody except for a startled-looking Y. Platinum and Sebastian have only just run into the room. Blake slams a hand against the wall.

"How did this happen?" he yells over the blaring sirens. "There's only one entrance — we were watching it the entire time!"

"Excuse me, Mr. Blake, but there are two entrances to the vault."

"What?" Blake demands. "Two?"

"Indeed. The first is the main entrance, which is as you see before you."

"And the second? Tell me!" Blake demands again.

"In the winter sitting room, of course."

Blake feels his eye twitch.

"I believe I showed it to you during our tour of the estate."

The sirens drown out Blake's answer — which is a shame, because he comes up with some particularly creative swears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End notes now with 200 percent more snark.
> 
> ...Except for this one.


	2. Stealing a News Cycle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today is the beginning of a brand-new world. One in which I break my long fics into chapters instead of dumping them all at once.
> 
> The implications are truly staggering.

Blue holds the Lustrous Orb up to the light. The surface shimmers a mysterious lavender color. The orb is so perfectly spherical that there is no beginning or end. It seems to trap light inside it, and its very center radiates the rainbow. She had worried whether the Lustrous Orb would live up to her expectations. She hadn't needed to.

"You'll drop it."

Blue cradles the Lustrous Orb in her hands. "Pish-posh, Silver. Have you ever known me to be anything less than exceedingly, exceptionally, _extraordinarily_ careful?"

Silver doesn't bother glancing in her direction. "You cracked the Diancite," he says, not looking away from the television screen even once. Blue watches  Silver watch the television screen. A cartoon Pokémon yells and transforms into a cartoon robot, and then that cartoon robot transforms into an even bigger cartoon robot, in some sort of poorly-drawn superhero matryoshka.

Blue shrugs. "I think we're all allowed a mulligan at some point. Besides, that was my very first heist. I couldn't help being excited." She carefully wraps the Lustrous Orb in a thin silken cloth before returning it to its oak chest. She shuts the lid with a click.

"It took twenty percent off the asking price."

"Well, yes…"

"After the handler's cut, you lost money."

Blue pulls the gloves from her hands and waves them dismissively. "Diamonds are overrated, anyway. This little ol' thing is so much prettier! It gleams _and_ it shimmers. It glimmers!"

Silver steadfastly refuses to look away from the television. "I still don't understand why you like shiny objects so much."

Blue drops onto the cashmere sofa, next to him. "What's not to like? Shiny objects paid for the apartment you're visiting, the sofa you're sitting on, and the television that's showing you that cut-rate children's cartoon."

Silver _does_ turn at that. "It's art," he clarifies pointedly.

"It's art that you could watch for yourself if you got your own television set."

"I don't steal electronics. I hack them."

"Still, that doesn't mean you can't get a television set of your very own. I could never understand people who enjoy being cooped up in a dingy little hovel all the time."

"I like my dingy little hovel."

" _That's_ what I don't understand," Blue answers him, and turns her attention back to the television. The bigger cartoon robot is now fusing with another cartoon robot. It's robots all the way down, Blue supposes. She changes the channel.

"I was watching that," Silver protests.

"My house, my rules," Blue chirps. She scrolls through the channels. A documentary on Spinda patterns. _Click._ An exposé claiming that aliens built the Ruins of Alph. _Click._ A news report on a theft from the Berlitz estate. _Click._ A home design show. Blue pauses. She goes back a channel. _Click._

"— despite heightened security and the presence of Interpol. Interpol says the crime is the most recent in a spate of high-profile thefts committed by an individual calling themselves The Water Thief, who has stolen, among other things, the Tidal Bell of Ecruteak City, a half-dozen Moon Stones, and the antenna from Goldenrod City's Radio Tower."

Silver raises an eyebrow. "What did you end up doing with that, anyway?"

"Can't remember," Blue shrugs.

"This time?" the announcer continues. "The Lustrous Orb, valued at over $3.5 million, and long held by the prestigious Berlitz family of Sinnoh. Platinum Berlitz has a message for the culprit."

An image of a dark-haired woman in a burgundy coat appears on the television screen.

"Will this appear on television? How exciting! I've never been filmed for the television before."

An old man with a white beard leans down and whispers in her ear.

"Oh! Already?"

The man nods silently at her. The woman returns her gaze to the screen. Her face is grave.

"Ahem. The value of the Lustrous Orb cannot be described in numbers. It is a memento of the founder of the Berlitz family, and a reminder of the good deeds we hope to achieve for the world. The Lustrous Orb is no shiny trinket; it is as much a part of the Berlitz family as I am," the woman says. She faces the camera, steely-eyed. "To The Water Thief, if you are watching, as I know you are: I implore you to reconsider your actions. I shall bear no animus toward you if the Lustrous Orb is returned. I strongly urge you to do so."

She pauses for a moment. Then the steely-eyed gaze returns. "I additionally request that you send me more of your riddles. The one you provided was quite intellectually stimulating."

"We found someone who likes your poetry," Silver quips, just as the screen changes to video of an Interpol press conference. A harried-looking man in a trench coat is answering questions from the press. His forehead is shiny with sweat, and he glances down at the array of microphones spread in front of him as though they're daggers. Behind him stands a younger chestnut-haired man, clearly irritated by the entire spectacle, and with the frustrated frown and jutting jaw to prove it. Blue is reminded of a much-younger Silver after being denied chocolate milk: the opposite of menacing.

"He's cute," Blue notes.

Silver regards the television skeptically. "The guy who needs a towel?"

"No, the other one." The camera zooms in on the man in the trench coat. He's sweating even more profusely now. "Oh, never mind. He's gone now."

"Is this a failure by Interpol?" a reporter demands.

"T-these kinds of crimes take, er, time to investigate," the sweaty man says, sweating more. "I assure you, Interpol is, um, working diligently to apprehend the culprit."

"Interpol has been searching for The Water Thief for over three years," another reporter presses. "Why have no arrests been made yet?"

The sweaty man scratches his collar. "Interpol seeks to, erm, avoid wrongly accusing civilians. I-Interpol will bring charges when we believe we have sufficient, er, evidence, to prosecute the case."

"Does that mean that after three years Interpol still doesn't know who is responsible?" a woman's voice shouts.

"Interpol gathers, um, evidence after every crime. We are closer than we ever have been to, well, apprehending the individual responsible." The sweaty man punctuates his statement with a wipe of his forehead.

Blue lifts her eyebrows. "Closer than they ever have been?" she repeats, bemused. "They don't really think that, do they?"

"Something infinitesimally greater than zero is still greater than zero."

"I'm not convinced they're even _there_."

"— and we assure the public, that Interpol will come to a speedy resolution of this case. Thank you," the sweaty man finishes. He retreats from the podium as if it might bite him. Reporters shout unanswered questions after him.

Blue hums to herself. "Perhaps Interpol needs a reminder of what The Water Thief can do."

"I don't think they do."

"Oh no, I think they do," Blue smiles back. "I'll think of something appropriately grand. It'll keep them on their toes. Help them brush away the cobwebs a little bit."

Silver stands and stretches. "I'm sure they're grateful for your help."

"They should be! They wouldn't have jobs without me, you know." She twists around so she can watch Silver gather his things over the back of the sofa. "Which job are you off to now?"

"The bakery."

"Bring me back a red velvet cupcake, would you?"

"No."

"I'll give you my television for an entire day."

"Deal," Silver says, heading for the front door. "How long until I hear about you on the news?"

"Oh, I don't imagine it'll be too long."

Silver snorts. "Don't make a huge scene."

Blue smiles fiendishly. "Oh, Silver. I would never."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Narrator voice: She makes a huge scene.


	3. Stealing the Show

Blake collects all the files Interpol has on The Water Thief. He feels like flinging them down onto his office floor, but that would be childish. So he drops them instead. They land with a resounding _whump_.

He pores through page after page. His eyes grow wider after every one. Everything about them is unknown: age, sex, height, weight, everything. The Water Thief has no hometown, only a location where they've last been seen. (And even then, nobody actually _saw_ them, but something expensive _did_ turn up stolen.) Whoever The Water Thief is, they're good. Implausibly good. Impossibly good. Nobody is that good.

"Want some coffee?" Y asks from the doorway.

Blake breaks his concentration. Y is standing above him, a styrofoam cup of black coffee in her hand. It looks cold.

Blake raises an eyebrow. "Is that from yesterday?"

"Beggars can't be choosers."

"I didn't beg for coffee."

"I'll take it back."

Blake scowls and grabs the cup from her hand. He downs it in a single gulp. It tastes musty: it _is_ from yesterday. He tries not to be alarmed by the fact that it doesn't really bother him anymore.

"So how's the search going?" she asks him, eyes wandering around the ocean of papers scattered across the floor.

Blake makes a noncommittal grunt.

"That bad?"

Blake crosses his arms. He eyes the papers on the floor as if they're unwashed socks instead of case files. "It's ridiculous. They've been stealing things for years, and we don't even know anything about them. There's no pattern, no common thread, no nothing. They just show up and slip away, like — like…"

"Like water."

"Yeah, that," Blake huffs.

Y glances down at a note a staffer just handed her. "You're in luck. Seems our Water Thief has sent out another postcard."

"Where at?"

"The…" Y trails off, a look of confusion swimming onto her face. "…Lilycove Contest Hall?"

Blake is sure he looks just as confused. "The Lilycove Contest Hall?" he parrots. "What's there to steal?"

Y raises her eyebrows even further. "Well, you're not going to believe this."

When they arrive at Lilycove City, Blake is even more sure that he doesn't believe it.

"A rock?" Blake sputters.

The contest judge who had introduced himself as Ruby draws himself up disapprovingly. He clicks his tongue. "It is not _merely_ a rock. It is a relief depicting the everlasting beauty and grace of Pokémon. It is a sculpture handcrafted by an artist of worldwide renown, a vital component of the Lilycove Contest Hall, and infinitely valuable."

Blake looks the giant slab over. It's a sheer rock face with Pokémon performing moves carved into it, situated smack-dab in the middle of the lobby. Blake's artistic sense has always been slightly lacking, but even he has to concede that it's surely expensive.

It's also three times Blake's height and bigger than a car.

"How would someone even steal this?" he flounders. "It's got to be at least two hundred tons."

"Two hundred and eleven, to be precise."

"There's no way stealing something like that is even possible."

"I would agree with you, but that's not what the letter says. Read it for yourself," Ruby says drily, handing them another postcard. There's an aerial photograph of Lilycove City on the front. Blake flips it over, and instantly recognizes the handwriting:

_Diamonds and stones are a girl's best friend._

_However, friendships in January often come to an end._

_If they're taken, people and Pokémon will their garments rend._

_Love,_

_The Water Thief_

"The only thing I got out of that is that the author's a pretentious jerk," Blake grumbles.

"Absolutely," Y says. "The meter is terrible."

"Truly atrocious," Ruby agrees with her.

Blake groans. "Look, I just want to know how on Earth someone is going to steal a two-hundred ton —"

"Two hundred and _eleven_ tons."

"— two-hundred-and-eleven ton rock — _relief_ — from inside a building where the widest entrance is three people wide?" Blake demands.

Ruby holds his hands up. "How should I know?" he says dubiously. "I only received the postcard. You're from Interpol. Isn't figuring this out your job?"

Blake grinds his teeth. He's good at his job, no question about it. Unfortunately for Blake, he has to begrudgingly admit that The Water Thief is good at theirs. He crosses his arms and wracks his brain for ideas, staring down the two-hundred-and-eleven ton relief that is now gently levitating off the floor.

"Wait, what?" he stammers.

"The rock —!"

"The relief —!"

"It's floating!"

Blake recovers himself first. He sprints toward the relief, now more than two feet off the ground, leaps up, and latches onto one of the Pokémon outcroppings.

Ruby shrieks. "The sign _clearly_ says no touching!"

"I'll worry about that after I get it back on the ground!" Blake snaps. He looks above him. The relief's being held aloft by a giant, pink balloon-like blob.

"Y!" he calls out. "The balloon!"

"On it! Go, Fletchy!" she calls out. Fletchy flaps up toward the pink blob, and with a single well-placed peck, stabs it with its beak. There's a whoosh of air, and the pink blob sputters as it deflates. A sense of relief washes over Blake as the relief starts to descend.

Blake is about to hop down when the relief jolts and there's a sound like a cannon. The relief suddenly rises into the air again, much more rapidly this time.

"What? Again?" Blake shouts, but his voice is drowned out by the cannon sound. He stares down at the rapidly receding floor. Water from somewhere is starting to pool on the floor.

"I'm sorry, but all passengers must have a ticket!" a cheerful woman's voice laughs from above him.

Blake barely has time to snap his head around to look for the voice's owner before a foot stamps down on his hand, and Blake yelps and lets go of the relief.

"Toodle-oo!" the woman's voice calls out as Blake falls back toward the ground. Fletchy swoops over and snatches his arm in its talons, flapping its wings furiously as it tries to slow his descent. The woman has vanished, and from this angle, Blake can see more clearly what's making the relief go airborne: in an impressive display of strength and ingenuity, a Blastoise has attached itself to the bottom of the relief and is using its water cannons like a jetpack, using the thrust to propel the entire relief into the air. Then Blake remembers that the culprit is a thief, and he tries to be less impressed.

"Dewott! Stop that Blastoise!" he shouts, and hurls a Poké Ball with pinpoint accuracy on top of the relief. Dewott pops out and takes its scalchops in hand.

"No! What if Dewott misses and cuts the relief?" Ruby screeches from below him.

"Dewott doesn't miss," Blake coolly replies. Dewott sets itself up to launch its scalchops point-blank at Blastoise. Blastoise suddenly rotates itself, causing the relief to suddenly wobble in midair. Dewott misses.

The relief is rising higher, now, and in between the cannon blasts of water, Blake can hear and see the ceiling shaking — not a moment later, chunks of the ceiling start tumbling onto the floor. For a brief second, Blake sees what he thinks looks like a Nidoqueen's horn, before Y grabs his hand and dashes for cover, Ruby stumbling along behind them.

"I guess that answers your question about how the relief could be removed," Y says at a shout, but Blake can barely hear her over all the other noise filling the contest hall.

"It's hopeless," Ruby moans from beside him, watching the relief ascend farther and farther. It's nearly above the ceiling, now.

"Not yet," Blake grits out. He whispers a command into a microphone on his wrist, and watches as the command becomes encased in a bubble and starts floating up toward the relief.

"That's right! I almost forgot!" Y shouts. "That device is proprietary technology. There's no way anyone will know that bubble is actually carrying a command only for Dewott to hear!"

"Exactly. Once that command reaches Dewott, it'll be game, set…" Blake says, watching the bubble float ever-closer to Dewott. He allows a confident grin to crawl up his face. "And…"

The command bubble vanishes.

"Is that supposed to happen?" Ruby demands skeptically. Blake doesn't have to answer: a second later, Dewott plummets off the relief and onto the floor, fainted. The relief rises through the hole in the ceiling, then vanishes out of sight.

"I think the word you're looking for is 'match,'" Ruby says, slowly. "But I think the phrase 'rope-a-dope' could apply just as well."

"We're going to have our work cut out for us, aren't we?" Y mutters.

"Looks like it," Blake growls. He tries to stifle his frustration. It's easier than he would have expected, mostly because that frustration is secondary to his gnawing preoccupation with the fact that his heart is still racing, and he doesn't know why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by day-old coffee (TM).


	4. Stealing a Visit

The Interpol office building is, in Blue's professional opinion, dreadfully dreary. The shape is rectangular, and the facade is monochromatic. The interior is composed of industrial carpeting and offwhite wallpaper, and whatever bare furnishings exist are entirely utilitarian. There is not even a vase of flowers to brighten things up. She cannot decide whether working in such a place would be soul-crushingly depressing, or perfectly fitting for an organization that prides itself on getting the job done, no frills attached. On second thought, Blue considers the possibility that Interpol prides itself on getting the job done precisely _because_ its building is soul-crushingly depressing. The atmosphere is simply far too gloomy for Blue's taste, although that is partially because it's after midnight and the lights are out and there isn't a soul in the building besides her.  
  
Blue scans the room. It's really a case in point: everything there has a purpose. The L-shaped desk with the pair of computer monitors is for work. The bookshelf crammed with files and sheafs of paper is for work. The calendar on the wall marked with meetings and interviews is for work. There's an office swivel chair for sitting in to do work, and there's a tray of files for organizing work, and there's a clutch of blue pens for writing about work. There's a single unremarkable chair for guests (to discuss work, Blue supposes), and Blue sits down in it because everything in Interpol has a purpose, and the purpose of the single unremarkable chair for guests is to seat guests, and Blue is nothing if not a guest — very broadly speaking, of course.  
  
Blue rests her cheek in her hand, and sighs. She had really expected more from Blake's office.  
  
Getting inside had been simple enough. Interpol doesn't publicize the names of its officers, but figuring out who nearly detained her in Lilycove City was child's play. It was true that the Interpol building had cameras and armed security. It was also true that such trifling matters had never bothered Blue before. A little reconnaissance here, a few favors there, and a couple of greased skids just for good measure — and presto, instant access to the Interpol building, just add water. From there, finding the correct office was only a matter of being able to read a directory. She had imagined Interpol would put more effort into dissuading gatecrashers, and, if Blue was being entirely honest, the lack of effort on their part was mildly disappointing. She hoped whatever she found at her destination would make up for it.  
  
But it is just as drab and impersonal as the rest of the building. There are no photographs of friends or loved ones. There are no extra neckties stashed away in desk drawers, in case of a fashion emergency. There is not even a fake potted plant, let alone a live one. The centerpiece of the room is the floor-to-ceiling window (and Blue can find something to admire in a person who diligently works their way up from the very bottom of the organizational chart all the way to the corner office) — but even that floor-to-ceiling window looks out only upon the concrete and steel of the skyscraper right next door. There is nothing to indicate Blake's likes, dislikes, hobbies, personality, or anything at all, really. The full extent of personalization is his apparent preference for pens with blue ink.  
  
And yet, somehow that all squares with what she's already seen. A piercing gaze that focuses on the objective in front of him. An irritated scowl at being trapped at an unproductive press conference when he could be pursuing a lead. A quick foot and a quicker brain that doggedly pursues a goal, even if that goal is a two-hundred-and-eleven-ton relief that is implausibly being airlifted away.  
  
The heist in Lilycove City was meant to send a statement to Interpol. She hadn't expected Interpol — or, more accurately, an Interpol agent in particular — to send a message back. He had almost succeeded in putting the brakes on her plan in Lilycove City. If Blue hadn't decided at the last minute to accompany the relief herself, undoubtedly he would have remained affixed to it all the way back to the pickup point. His Dewott had been smart and adaptable, even without his commands, and the fact that Clefy had used Minimize beforehand, just in case, was the only reason they had overpowered it at all. The command bubble idea was a particularly clever trick, and it almost certainly would have strung her up if Blue hadn't invented and sold the technology to Interpol through various backchannels in the first place. His corner office isn't just for show, Blue thinks.  
  
Blue gets up from the chair. She navigates her way in between a sea of papers spread out on the floor, careful not to disturb them and give away her presence — they're all about The Water Thief: The Water Thief's heists, The Water Thief's whereabouts, The Water Thief's modus operandi. Blue stands by the window. It's flattering that he's taken to the task of arresting her with such dedication. She twirls an identification card between gloved fingers. She holds it up so whatever remaining light reflects off its surface. Name: Blake. Codename: Black No. 2. Rank: Inspector. A photograph: A serious face with sharp eyes and yet with childishly messy brown hair like a bird's nest.  
  
She slides the card back to where she found it. She doesn't need it any longer; she's already memorized its contents. She glances out the window at Castelia City one last time. How long will it be until she sees the face in the photograph again? She wonders if he'll be the one assigned to stop her next heist, perhaps even hopes that he is, and she smiles. She's up for a challenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blue is a big believer in the "my house is your house" philosophy


	5. Stealing a Drink

"Am I any good at my job?" Blake demands, staring down at what remains of his drink. It's a screwdriver, with a little less orange juice and a little more vodka. Just the way he likes it.

"You're the youngest person to achieve the rank of Inspector in the history of Interpol. What do you think," Y answers him.

"I think I'm a failure."

"And I think you've had enough," Y says, and reaches over to confiscate his glass. Blake clutches it tight, eyes her with a defiant glare, and drains what's left in a single go. He slides the empty glass to the other side of the table.

"Now you can take it," he informs her.

"Good to know," Y says wryly, and sets the empty glass next to the two other empty glasses at the edge of the table.

Blake heaves a dispirited sigh. He rubs his face with his hands and strives to rub away the alcohol-induced fuzziness in his head along with it. "Look, I know I'm not a failure. I'm good at what I do; I know that. And I'm not perfect, either; I know that, too. It's just…"

Y swirls the beer in her glass. "You wanted to be the one to catch The Water Thief."

Blake regards her with a frown. "Yeah. How can you be so blasé about it?"

"Of course I want to put The Water Thief away. Why else do you think I work at Interpol? If I didn't care about crime, I'd be tossing around seeds at a bird farm somewhere."

"Then sound like you care," Blake grumbles.

"I'm also realistic," Y continues, taking a sip from her glass. "I know Interpol has been chasing after The Water Thief for three years, and even after all that time they're still two steps ahead of us at every turn. You and me — we've only been on this beat for a month. What makes you think that in that short amount of time, you'd build a profile on them, predict their next move, arrest them in the act,  _ and _ collect enough evidence for a conviction?"

Blake growls. "I didn't think I could do all that in a month. But I  _ did _ think that the superintendent would've given us longer than that before deciding to take us off the case."

Y takes a long swig of beer. "What're you gonna do."

"You're doing that thing where you sound like you don't care again."

Y shrugs. "I don't know what to tell you. I'm not a mind reader. I don't know what goes through the superintendent's head. Maybe she decided that she wants to be the one to get the job done. I've heard she's looking to be nominated for a directorship in Kalos."

"I hope the reason isn't that shamelessly self-serving."

"Then maybe she's given up the hunt for The Water Thief as a lost cause, and would rather have her best agent rack up arrests instead of chasing after an evidentiary mirage."

"Then I wish she hadn't. There's no such thing as a criminal that can't be caught," Blake maintains.

"You're preaching to the choir, here," Y says with an indifferent shake of her head. "I don't doubt you could've gotten the job done. But in the same period of time, you've already bagged a Lapras poacher, two embezzlers, a Ponzi scheme conman, and a whole outfit of drug smugglers because they screwed up their taxes. From her point of view, it's pretty compelling evidence to keep you where you are."

Blake can't help but frown. "I know all that. But still…"

"Why does it bother you so much?"

Blake stares at her blankly. Y stares blankly back at him. The haze finally dissipates enough for Blake to register that an answer is expected of him. "What?" he manages.

Y takes another drink from her glass of beer. She examines him over the rim. "Why does it bother you so much? That she took you off the case."

"I told you. I wanted to finally take The Water Thief down," Blake repeats as though it's obvious, because he thought it was.

"Well, yes. But why?"

"How many layers deep are we going?" Blake snarks.

Y shrugs the remark off. "As officers of the law, we know better than anyone that establishing motive is important."

Blake mulls over her words through his buzz. "You said it yourself," he finally says. "The reason we're working at Interpol is to put criminals behind bars. So the fact that we're just letting The Water Thief off scot-free doesn't sit well with me."

"It's not as though you're resting on your laurels, though," Y points out. "You're still bringing justice to lawbreakers."

"Hmph. Justice could have found them sleepwalking. Leaving behind that much evidence should be a criminal act itself."

"The fact remains that they were all roaming free — the entire lot of them — until you went to work on the case and caught them. So you could even say that you're dispensing more justice, if you quantify it by the number of arrests."

Blake considers her logic. It is true that, in sheer numbers, Blake's been far more successful now that he's off The Water Thief case. It is also true that, in spite of that, being taken off The Water Thief case has rankled him in ways he's finding difficult to describe.

It is  _ also _ also true that Blake would be better equipped to resolve this dilemma if he hadn't just drunk three screwdrivers.

"I don't know," Blake groans, mentally shelving the problem for later, less-inebriated consideration. "I just wish she'd given us a little longer. Just to show her what we could do."

"So file an appeal," Y suggests, finishing the rest of her beer, and setting down the newly empty glass with a thunk. "Beg her. Bribe her. Whatever it takes."

"I'm not that desperate," he grimaces. Besides, he's already considered it.

"Then don't let it bother you," Y tells him, not unkindly. "You're good at what you do. You don't need to get worked up about this."

Blake sighs. It's an unsatisfying answer to an uncertain question, and yet inevitable all the same. He doesn't have time to waste on brooding. He shakes his head. "Thanks for keeping me on track."

"Not part of my job description," Y reminds him.

"Which is why I'm grateful. Speaking of which, did you finish preparing for the interrogation tomorrow?"

Y hands him a folder. "Some points for your review. He's inconsistent about his whereabouts the night before. It's suspicious."

Blake glances over the papers inside. "I had the same thought. That's reassuring." He snaps the folder shut and stows it in his coat. "Then I suppose I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early."

Y arches an eyebrow. She eyes the accumulated collection of empty glasses at the edge of the table. "Don't worry about me. You, on the other hand…"

"Will be well-rested and fifteen minutes early, as always," he answers.

"If you say so."

And Blake fully intends to follow through with that promise, but long hours after his body hits the mattress, he's still lying awake, staring at the darkened ceiling, counting the number of times he hears tires squealing in the distance and thinking about The Question. Why  _ does _ it bother him? The nagging thought surfaces and resurfaces in his mind like a buoy bouncing in the waves. Maybe it's his officer's instinct that doesn't like leaving questions unanswered, a puzzle unsolved, even if he knows that he would be better off leaving the pieces well enough alone. Something about it unsettles him, like watching water recede before a tsunami. He's unsettled by his lack of knowing. He's unsettled by the fact that he's throwing away comforting theories like month-old leftovers. He's unsettled by how much he's unsettled. And he is unsettled most of all, perhaps, (almost definitely), by the fact that the puzzle pieces have begun to arrange themselves into the shape of a woman's confident, bubbling laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter brought to you by Pokémon Let's Go Pikachu and Let's Go Eevee, whose trailer I have now watched more times than should be legally allowed.


	6. Stealing an Invitation

"What is it exactly that you look for in a toughness competition?"

"Well, I certainly can't divulge all of my criteria. It won't do to grant anyone an unfair advantage," the man on the television screen with the mop-like hat decrees. Blue vaguely recalls seeing him in Lilycove City when she had run into that Interpol agent for only the second time, and the memory sends a pang of something unfamiliar down her back. Blue reaches into her bag of chips. The bag rustles loudly.

"But one way to consider your question is to consider the meaning of toughness. What is toughness to you?"

The interviewer stumbles. "Uh — are you asking _me_?"

The man looks unimpressed. "I _am_ asking you."

"Um. Toughness is… uh. Being strong?"

"Yes, yes, but what _is_ being strong? That's what I'm asking."

"Er. I'm no contest judge, so I don't, uh, really…"

The man tuts. "Toughness is not mere strength. Is a Torterra tough? It's powerful enough to carry the world on its back — isn't that tough? What about a Relicanth? It's survived for millions of years, outlasting countless other Pokémon that have come and gone. Or perhaps an Avalugg — stoic and unmoving until it is nudged, and becomes unstoppable. Which of these is the toughest?"

"Hunh…? Um… The Avalugg?"

The man smiles knowingly. "That is what most people say. And yet, they are wrong. Toughness takes many forms. I encourage you to dwell on what that means. The people and Pokémon that understand why — those are the ones who are truly worthy of —"

Blue clicks the television off with a sigh. She throws her head back against the sofa. She groans.

There's no helping it: she's bored.

Three hundred channels of television, and there was nothing interesting. Yesterday, she finally made it to the play that the newspapers had been fawning over for months. The ticket cost a pretty penny, but Blue was assured the price was worth it. The assurances amounted to Blue leaving halfway through. An all-day shopping-slash-shoplifting spree had been enough to distract herself for a while, but filling a closet with clothes that looked better on the mannequins than on her was still the inescapable result. She had spotted a plush Stufful in a store window and briefly toyed with the idea of buying it — and if that wasn't proof enough of ennui, then truly nothing was.

Blue still went out and thieved, of course. If anything, her heists had become even more inventive and dramatic. The pair of star pieces on display in the Pewter Museum had been the first to go. An antique ship model from the museum in Slateport City was next. She returned to Goldenrod City, and stole the Radio Tower's replacement antenna. Seven days later, she stole the replacement's replacement. In a burst of inspiration, she made off with every book starting with the letter "B" from the Canalave City Library. Figuring out where to put them all was a hassle, but watching befuddled reporters and library clerks try to sift out some deep meaning from that affair had been more than enough to make up for it. She could only imagine the confusion at Interpol headquarters, but that thought had somehow led to a chain of events that resulted in her eating rocky road ice cream straight from the tub.

She's still not entirely sure how that happened.

A key rattles in the lock of her door. It creaks open, and Silver enters, still wearing his gas station attendant's uniform. A pair of plastic bags dangles from his hands.

"Did you bring me my cream soda?" Blue immediately asks him.

"It's good to see you," Silver answers. He sets the bags down on Blue's kitchen counter, and removes the take-out boxes from inside. Blue spies a tall styrofoam cup left behind in the bag.

"Oh, you did! You're so sweet, Silver."

"I take tips."

Blue stretches her arms out from above the sofa. "I will. Bring it over here, would you?"

Silver sits down on a chair at the counter.

Blue frowns, arms still outstretched into open air. "You're not going to make me get up, are you?"

Silver pops open the lid to the take-out fettuccine. The alluring scent of Parmesan cheese, shrimp, and starchy carbohydrates drifts over to Blue's seat on the sofa.

Blue forces herself upright with a sigh. "You're so mean to me," she complains, trudging over to join Silver at the counter. She plops down into the stool opposite him in a huff. "I didn't mean it when I said you were sweet."

"That's okay. You didn't mean it when you said you were going to tip, either."

"Not with an attitude like that, I'm not," Blue tells him. She unwraps a straw and stabs it through the top of her cup. "How was your day?"

Silver shrugs, mouth full of pasta. He swallows. "How was yours?"

Blue shrugs back.

Silver returns his attention to his fettuccine. "Good. Now tell me what's bothering you."

Blue takes a long drag from her soda. She raises an eyebrow at him. "Where'd that come from?"

Silver returns her skeptical look with one of his own. "You asked for a raspberry cream soda," he points out. Then, because the expression on Blue's face apparently doesn't change, he repeats, "Raspberry," as though the implications of that word are obvious.

"So?"

"The last time you wanted a raspberry cream soda was when Clefy got sick and you wouldn't leave your apartment until she got better."

"Silver, come on. Don't you know the meaning of the word _coincidence_?"

"The time before that you were crying that your life was over because you couldn't find a buyer for the meteorite."

"Okay, but that —"

"The time before that someone bought your dream apartment before you could make an offer, and you vowed to be a hobo for the rest of your life."

Blue gnaws on her straw. "How do you know all this, anyway? Are you a stalker?"

"We're practically siblings, and that's basically the same thing."

"Fine. I give up," Blue relents. She collapses onto the counter and stares up at Silver's chin. "I'm so booooored."

Silver slides his styrofoam container of food away from her. "I can see that."

"Do you know what it's like, Silver? To be this bored?"

Silver shovels a forkful of pasta into his mouth. He shakes his head.

"It's boring. It's _so_ boring. It's so boring I could die. And then I'd be dead, and that would be boring, too."

Silver shovels another forkful of pasta into his mouth. He nods his head.

"And you know what's worse? The only things to do are boring things. How boring is that?"

"You should get out of your apartment," Silver suggests. "Steal something nice for yourself."

"I _did_ ," Blue sighs, and pries herself up so that she can wave a hand at a pair of onyx earrings.

"They look good on you."

"Thanks," Blue says, glumly. "But it's not as fun as it used to be. Shoplifting's almost like sleepwalking now."

"You don't remember it afterward?"

"That's not it. It's automatic, like my body's just going through the motions. There's no excitement, no thrill. Do you ever get like that?"

Silver stares hard at a shrimp. "I don't think so. But I steal money through a computer. It's different."

Blue sighs. She takes another swig of her cream soda. The syrup has concentrated around the bottom of the cup, and the intense, taste bud-shriveling sweetness bothers her less than it probably should. "It never used to be this way. I've done this for years, now. It's always been fun. But now it's not, and I have no idea why." She considers her drink. She makes a face. "Am I having a midlife crisis? I'm too young to be having one of those."

Silver scrapes up some of the alfredo sauce from the bottom of the box. "Then I've been having midlife crises for years."

"Yes, but you've always been an old man."

"You're never too young to experience crushing, existential self-doubt."

"Why do I bother talking with you? You always make things more depressing."

"It's what I do."

Blue gnaws at her straw again. It's well-chewed on, now. "I just want it to be like it was. Is that naïve? To want things to be the way they were before."

"Before what?" Silver asks her.

Blue waves a hand. "Just. Before. Before I…" she trails off. Her thoughts, swimming around in a jumbled mess, suddenly sort themselves into a neat little timeline. A timeline that's labelled "Before" on one end, and "After" on the other, and a small glowing section in between that she wants to pick up and stretch to see how far it goes, and that small glowing section gradually reforms itself into a person with a name and a piercing gaze and a determined frown and chestnut-brown hair that's childishly messy like a bird's nest.

"What is it?" Silver wonders.

Blue turns to him. She smiles sweetly. "Silver. My faithful companion, wonderful human being, just overall best person in the world, Silver."

Silver shrinks. "Oh, no. What do you want."

"Just a small favor," Blue promises him. "It's nothing, really — I just want you to pass a message to Interpol."

"What."

"You still have a connection there, don't you?"

Silver frowns. "I do, but —" He cuts himself off. He inhales a deep breath. His eyes widen in sudden realization. "You like him," he states.

Blue stares blankly back at him. "Context, please," she demands.

"It's that Interpol guy. The guy you were talking about before. He's the one you want me to pass a message to."

"Lucky guess, but —"

"And you want me to do that because you like him," Silver repeats, staring at her with almost comically wide eyes.

Blue huffs. "That's quite a leap of logic. All I'm saying is that these new Interpol people must be fresh out of school, because they're hopeless. At least this guy was good at his job. I'm bored, and he made things exciting. That's all there is to it."

Silver shakes his head. "That's definitely not all there is to it."

"Look, will you do this for me or won't you?"

"This is a bad idea."

"That's not an answer to my question."

"Blue, I'm not sure this will —"

"Still not an answer."

Silver frowns intently at the empty styrofoam. "I'll do it," he finally says, slowly, and shakes his head doubtfully again to re-emphasize how much of a bad idea he thinks it is. "But you definitely like him."

Blue scoffs. "Well, you're wrong. I don't like him, and that's that," she tells him, and because Silver is still looking at her dubiously, Blue has to hold her hands over her mouth to hide the smile creeping up her face. "So finish up, already. You have a message to deliver."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's still Wednesday in... [checks notes] ...French Polynesia. Yes.


	7. Stealing Blind

Blake feels eyes on him. He glances up as inconspicuously as possible. The redheaded bartender who handed him his drink is standing still and silent above him. If it weren't for the occasional blink of his eyes, Blake would have mistaken him for a propped-up corpse.

"Do you want another?" the bartender finally asks, voice barely audible over the ambient noise in the bar.

"No thanks," Blake says. The bartender silently nods and moves on down the line to serve the other patrons, who are both more generous with their tips and far more inebriated than Blake is. The two things are probably related.

Blake scowls down at his nearly empty glass. Blake had ordered a vodka and seven. What he got was barely a seven. He can't believe he paid twelve bucks for a drink so watered down it could be served to a ten-year-old. He'd really prefer something stronger, especially after the past three months (and that thought alone nearly makes Blake slap a hand onto the bar and demand a double shot of vodka, neat).

But he's still on the clock. He'd gotten a tip-off that The Water Thief frequented a bar called The Drunken Spinda. There were a million reasons not to go. He's not technically on the case. He had a meeting in the morning. He was the first person, as far as he knew, to even hear The Water Thief's voice (cheerful and bubbly and refreshing like a chattering creek) — how could the informant know much more? It was, in all likelihood, a massive waste of time. And yet, it was too good an opportunity to pass up. So Blake decided to chance it, even if that meant suffering through a weak pour of alcohol and a stoic bartender who looked more at home in a mortuary.

Blake hopes the rest of the bar has already drunk enough to make for quick interrogations. He throws back the last of his own drink. It's enough liquid courage to ease him into character. He hops off his barstool, puts on his well-practiced ladykiller grin, and makes a pass at the first person he sees.

"Excuse me, are you a Blaziken?" he asks the woman, sidling up to the barstool on her left. "Because you're one hot chick."

The woman stares at him mutely for several seconds. Then she laughs in his face and walks away.

The night doesn't get much better from there.

Blake tries an auburn-haired girl at the far end of the bar. "I'm gay," she informs him.

Blake tries a blonde man in a leather jacket next to her. "I'm not," he says bluntly.

Blake tries an almond-eyed woman in a flowery dress. "I have a boyfriend," she huffs.

"Who happens to be me," the heavyset guy standing next to her adds, cracking his knuckles, and Blake has a good enough sense of self-preservation to scram.

By the end of the night, Blake is left skulking alone in a booth at the far corner of the bar, with no new information and even less dignity to show for it. He nurses his glass of water and watches everybody else get drunk. His eyes wander down the bar. Midway through are a pair of boisterous drunks — maybe they'll spill something interesting and it'll be loud enough for Blake to hear. All the way at the end, a woman is sitting alone next to a martini glass. Just as Blake realizes she's watching him, she nudges herself off her barstool and walks over to Blake's booth. Calling it walking is a bit generous, though: She barely makes it all the way over without tripping over her own feet. Blake is begrudgingly impressed. She eases herself into the booth opposite him. Alcohol is heavy on her breath. She's completely plastered.

"What's a, a…" she trails off. Her eyes rove over him appreciatively. "…Cutie-pie like you doing, sitting all alone?"

Blake evaluates her. She's got a twinkle in her eye and a charming lilt to her voice. She's objectively attractive and knows it — but Blake thinks she would be more attractive if she wasn't absolutely wasted. She's the type of person to flirt with half the bar and get away with it: a prime candidate to pump for information. He takes a careful sip of water.

"I'm sobering up," he decides to say. It's a half-truth (he wasn't even buzzed to begin with), but Blake makes his living off of half-truths. He watches for her reaction.

She beams wide. "That's good! Really good. It's res — responsah — responsible," she finally manages. She waves a hand, or tries to — it looks less like a wave and more like a flop. "All the regular guys — total flirts. They can't live up to the hype. I like guys who're responsah…" she trails off. She frowns. "I like guys like that," she eventually decides.

Blake senses his opening. "Do you come here often?"

She nods furiously. "Uh-huh. I'm like the Queen of Drunks." She pauses and blinks owlishly. Then she bursts into a cheery laugh, one that Blake inexplicably finds himself stumbling over. "Oops! Ahahaha, I said — drunks! I didn't mean that. I meant to say… I'm like Queen of The Drunken Spinda. I'm not drunk all the time." She pauses again. "Well, a lot of the time. But not all the time."

Blake suppresses a groan. It takes less effort than he would have imagined.

"I've never seen your cute face around before, though!" she giggles, leaning over the table and closer to him. "Trust me, I would know. I'm like the Queen of The Drunken Spinda." She stops and concentrates for a moment. "Did I say that before? I said that before, didn't I?"

"You did," Blake gently reminds her.

"You're right, I did. I'm so silly," she giggles again. Her gaze lingers on him again. "Have I told you how good-looking you are?"

"You did that, too," Blake says.

The woman tilts her head and goes quiet for a moment. "You're so… serious. A real serious guy," she announces. "I could tell, even when I was over at the bar. This is the booth for serious people."

"A booth for serious people?" Blake repeats.

The woman makes the floppy hand gesture again. "Uh-huh. I was surprised, at first! Because a woman usually sits here, you know. She's the same as you — sits in a booth in the corner with a water. Never talks to anyone. Just sits by her lonesome, all serious and mysterious." She pauses, then giggles. Even drunk, it's charming. "Did you hear that? That rhymed! Serious and myst… mysterious."

Blake raises an eyebrow. A woman who sits by herself, but is frequent enough to be a regular? A woman who goes to a bar but only ever orders water? Maybe the night won't be a waste, after all.

"Excuse me," a quiet voice announces. It's the redheaded bartender who looks like death warmed over. His bored eyes flit between the two of them. "I'm sorry, but we're closing the bar in a few minutes. I'm coming by to close out any tabs."

"Whaaaat?" the woman pouts. "The night's still early!"

The bartender shakes his head. "The owner had an emergency. We'll be back open tomorrow. We sincerely apologize for the inconvenience."

"Aw, come on!" the woman whines. "I don't wanna go home yet."

Blake can't let this chance slip away. "Where do you live?" he asks her.

"Hunh?"

"I'll walk you home," Blake clarifies. "I wouldn't feel comfortable if you walked back alone at this time of night. I'm pretty sober, now. I'll make sure you get home safe."

A wide grin breaks out on her face. It's blinding. "Aw, thanks soooo much! You're so res… responsah — responsible." She nods. "I knew it. I've always had a — a good eye. You're a real good guy."

"Your tab," the bartender gently reminds her.

"I'll pick it up," Blake says. The bartender raises an eyebrow, but hands him the bill regardless. Blake does a double-take, but the numbers don't change. He bites back a grimace and flicks down his credit card. At least he can have Interpol reimburse him — although he's dreading having to explain that _yes_ , the alcohol _was_ a work-related expense.

A few minutes later, the two of them are out in the city, slowly meandering in the direction of the woman's apartment. They make an odd pair: Blake standing tall and serious, bundled up in a coat for the weather, and the drunken woman hanging off his arm, in a black sleeveless dress and showing too much skin for February. The chill doesn't seem to bother her too much, and Blake briefly considers whether that's because of how much she's had to drink, or because of how close her body is to his own.

"Which way from here?" Blake asks her, stopping at a street corner.

The woman tries to stand up straighter. She squints at the street sign. "Left. I think," she says, after a moment's hesitation. "Yeah! It's left," she says again, eagerly, attempting to tug him into the crosswalk.

Blake holds firm. "Hold on — the light's red."

She looks up at the streetlight. "Oh. It is red, isn't it?" She pauses. She frowns. "You saved me."

"I told you I'd get you home safe."

The woman seems to consider his words. "You're a real gentleman. That's nice. Guys aren't gentlemen, not like they used to be."

"Maybe you're just going to the wrong bar."

The woman shakes her head. "I go to the right bar! Maybe it took long — longer — but instead of that fuddy-duddy woman I got to meet you!"

There's his point of entry. "I thought you said she's a regular," Blake says, casually.

"Uh-huh. But she hasn't come by for like —" the woman counts on her fingers. She stops. She counts again. "— like, twelve days. That's like a week!"

"She never talks to anyone?"

"Nope. I don't think anyone knows her name. That's — that's why I call her The Serious Woman," she pouts cutely. Blake looks away. "Except…" she murmurs.

"Except?" Blake prods.

She turns to him, delighted like a child winning a game of tic-tac-toe. "Except the bartender, right? Because she has to get her water from somewhere!"

Her smile is so glowing that Blake almost forgets why he's here in the first place. So he'll have to talk to the bartender. He prays it's not the redheaded one from earlier — he seemed about as talkative as a brick wall.

"Is she on good terms with any of the bartenders in particular?" he asks, fishing around for more information.

The woman frowns and doesn't say anything. She finally turns to Blake with pursed lips and watery eyes. "Do you… Do you not like me?" she warbles.

"What? No, what makes you think that?"

She pouts. "You've been asking about, about — this other woman. And I'm right here, you know? What does she have? Am I not…" Her voice starts to waver. "Why don't you like me?" she bursts out in a wail.

Blake glances around nervously. Pedestrians are gawking at them. All things being equal, he'd really prefer to avoid making a scene. And despite the frustration, Blake is struck by a sudden pang of affection for this woman he's only barely met, with her bubbly enthusiasm and confident stride, and all of it in spite of being three sheets to the wind. Blake shrugs off his coat and wraps it around her. He pats her comfortingly on the shoulder.

"That's not true," he says, aiming for a soothing voice. (He's not sure he gets there — he doesn't use his soothing voice often.) "I like you a lot. You're charming, and funny. You're just fine the way you are."

The woman sniffles. She looks up at him with soulful eyes. "…You mean it?"

"Yeah," Blake says, smiling. He rubs her on the shoulder again. "Let's get you home, okay?"

The woman hiccups. She nods. They continue the rest of the way, the woman occasionally stumbling or hiccuping, but otherwise quiet, and Blake is content. The air is chilly without his coat. He decides not to press his luck any further tonight. He'll need to speak with the bartender — but that comes later. RIght now, he's going to finish walking the woman home. And perhaps Blake can always come back and see her again. Interpol's been searching for The Water Thief for three years. Blake can be patient.

The woman stops him at a street corner, next to a road sign. "My apartment is just down that way," she announces, pointing down a residential street. Blake glances around. Nobody is around this late at night, but the neighborhood seems nice. She has good taste. "I think — I think I'm good, from here."

Blake nods. "Okay. If you're sure."

The woman nods back at him. She looks down and studies the pavement for several moments. Then she looks back up at him, bashfully. "Thank you, you know. You're so — so nice. And cute, and serious, and responsible. Do you mind me saying that?"

Blake shakes his head. "Not at all. Compliment me more, if you want," he says, mostly in jest, and only slightly proud.

The woman looks at him for a long while, as though debating something. "Maybe. Maybe I will," she says, suddenly close enough that Blake can see that a stray eyelash has fallen onto her cheek. Blake feels himself go rigid. His brain seems to be processing his options entirely too slowly. She presses a hand against his chest. Blake's deliberations cease to be purely academic.

"I like guys with broad shoulders," she whispers, ghosting a hand over his shoulder; Blake shivers, and fleetingly tries to convince himself it's from the cold. "And I like guys with a wide chest," she murmurs, sliding her hand up and underneath his collar until it is flush and warm against his skin. "And I like guys who are serious," she purrs, leaning even closer toward him, and Blake has less than a second to process this fact before she's kissing him.

In that instant, Blake supposes he has made his decision. (Or maybe not — maybe he decided when he placed his coat around his shoulders, or maybe he decided when he walked her home, or maybe he decided the very instant she sat across from him and laughed her chiming laugh.) In the back of his mind he knows that faking affection is cruel to this woman that he's only just met. Even deeper in the back of his mind he wonders whether he's faking at all. But as her lips meet his and as her hands close over his, Blake can't be bothered to think about that. He can't be bothered to think about much at all, really; except about the warmth of her touch; except about her skin, smooth as velvet; except about how she doesn't smell like alcohol and instead like the ocean.

_Click._

Blake's eyes snap open. The woman pulls herself back. "What's wrong?" she asks him.

Blake grits his teeth. He yanks his hands forward. He's unsuccessful — in large part because he's just been handcuffed to the street sign.

"What's wrong? You _handcuffed_ me!" he snarls. The cuffs rattle indignantly.

"Oh, did I do that? Silly old me," she giggles, looking back with a crafty smile and twinkling eyes. Whatever good feelings Blake had been experiencing are now decidedly gone. "Unless… you're into this kind of thing?"

Blake growls. "I'm not, so let me go."

"I suppose I could," she says thoughtfully, and starts rummaging around until she retrieves a shiny silver key, and Blake realizes with a sinking heart that the key she just plucked from Blake's coat pocket is Blake's handcuff key that unlocks Blake's pair of handcuffs that are currently wrapped around Blake's wrists.

"But this key looks so lovely. I think I'd much rather keep it for myself," she muses, flicking it into the air and catching it again with the dexterity of a person who definitely isn't drunk.

"You're not drunk," Blake accuses her.

The woman smiles wider. "Bingo! Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner!"

"You've been faking?"

"Did you enjoy it? You're not the only one who can put on an a show."

"What are you talking about?"

The woman rolls her eyes. "Oh, you can't be that clueless, can you? I thought Interpol was better than that."

Blake feigns ignorance. "Interpol? What the hell?"

"You can drop the act," the woman scoffs. She rummages through Blake's coat pockets. "I bet I can find your Interpol badge if I look hard enough, Black No. 2. That's your codename, isn't it? Or do you prefer Blake?"

Blake scowls and says nothing.

"I think I'll go with Blake; it feels so much more personal. It's like we're friends already. Ah! Here it is," she says, taking his wallet in hand. "Yep, Interpol ID, credit card, license, and — wow, you're loaded. Don't mind if I do. Can't call myself a thief if I don't steal anything, now can I?"

"Huh? Y-you're —" Blake stammers.

"The Water Thief. But since we're on a first-name basis now, you can call me Blue," she smiles at him. "It's a pleasure to meet you!"

"I can't say the feeling is mutual," Blake grunts. His cuffs jangle.

"That's not very nice," Blue sighs. "And after all the trouble I went through to meet you in person."

"You're the one who tipped off Interpol?" Blake says, disbelievingly.

"I had a friend do it, technically."

" _Someone's_ confident," Blake bites out.

"Excellent observation skills."

Blake glares at her. "That'll be what gets you into trouble," he tells her, loudly. "You can't keep running —"

Blue holds a finger up to her lips. "Hush, hush. Don't go making a huge scene, now. What if the papers found out that an Interpol agent got drunk and handcuffed himself to a street sign? There would be stories for weeks."

Blake grumbles, obligingly quieter.

Blue holds Blake's phone out to him. "Now, what I want you to do is call your partner — Yvonne, isn't it? — and tell her to come pick you up. And before you try anything funny, remember that I've been stealing things for years and Interpol still has nothing on me."

Blake examines his phone skeptically. "Why should I?"

"Well, I suppose you don't have to. You could just wait here until morning," Blue shrugs. She looks thoughtfully up at the sky. "I think it's supposed to get below freezing tonight."

Blake grinds his teeth. He's pretty sure they're just nubs by now.

"Y speaking," a voice crackles from the phone.

"Y? This is Blake," he grits out. He cranes his neck up at the street sign. He can only make out the one that says Cedar Street. "Listen, can you come and pick me up? I'm at the corner of Cedar and…" he trails off, straining his neck. Blue mouths "Second" at him. Blake grumbles again. "Cedar and Second," he tells her.

"Have you been drinking again?" Y demands.

"No, I haven't been —" he stops, watching Blue's amused expression, and sighs. "Just, can you do me this favor? I'll make it up to you."

"Hmph. You owe me a bottle of Talonflame whiskey," she says, and the line goes dead.

"She has good taste," Blue comments.

"She has _expensive_ taste," Blake glumly corrects her.

"Same difference, really," Blue says merrily. She wraps the coat — Blake's coat — more tightly around herself. Blake watches enviously. He suppresses a shiver. It's petulant, but he won't give her the satisfaction of watching him be cold.

"I should probably get going, now," she announces, running a hand through her hair. "But I do have to say thank you. Tonight was really wonderful. I had lots of fun."

"Oh, good. I was worried for a moment, there. You don't need anyone to walk you home, do you?"

"Well, aren't you a gentleman? I always knew I had good taste," Blue chirps. She waltzes toward him, leans in, and pecks him a single time on the cheek. Blake ignores the fuzzy sensation it leaves behind. He scowls at her instead. "Thank you for offering, but I know how to handle myself. I'm sure we'll get together again before too long. I'm looking forward to it! So until then, bye-bye!" Then she waves and turns on her heel and strolls back down the street until she turns the corner and disappears.

Blake is openly shivering when he finally recognizes the bright red of Y's car. It takes less than two seconds for her to figure out that something is wrong. Blake is split fifty-fifty as to whether that's because he's not wearing a coat, or because he _is_ wearing handcuffs.

"What happened?" she demands.

"The Water Thief happened," Blake grumbles, and he tells her about going to The Drunken Spinda, about escorting a woman from the bar home, about meeting The Water Thief — Blue — in person. He tells her about everything, everything except for the lingering warmth that he still feels on his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Blake do you like everyone who steals from you because I do not think that is a good life decision


	8. Stealing a Chance

"I _like_ him," Blue wails.

She flings herself at Silver and latches around his torso as soon as he opens his door. Silver stiffens. His hand hovers awkwardly close to Blue's back, but doesn't quite touch it, as though he can't quite decide whether the Cyndaquil he's about to pet will scorch his hand instead.

It takes almost a minute for Blue to peel herself off of him. She smooths out her dress and readjusts her earrings. She glances up. Silver's looking down at her with nervous, second-guessing eyes. "Don't worry, that was good enough. I won't ask for another hug," Blue tells him. "I _will_ help myself to your tequila cabinet, though."

Silver visibly relaxes. "Oh, thank god." He steps aside to allow Blue passage, and shuts the door behind her. Blue makes a beeline for the cabinet in the back of Silver's kitchenette, where she retrieves a bottle of tequila at random from his collection of some twenty-plus varieties, and sets it down on the counter with a thunk. Silver's already produced a pair of shot glasses atop the counter, and Blue wastes no time in filling them. She lifts hers with something between a grin and a grimace, and clinks it against Silver's in a toast before she throws it back. She hacks out a series of coughs as she feels the familiar burn against her throat. Silver mirrors her, except he drinks his with complete and utter nonchalance, and doesn't so much as take in a deep breath after he swallows.

"I'll never figure out how you do that," Blue tells him, after setting her glass down.

"Years of training on top of a mountain."

"Liar. You couldn't live that long without an Internet connection."

"You got me."

Blue twirls the empty shot glass between her fingers, trying to collect herself. She watches a drop of tequila skate in circles around the bottom of the glass in an endless loop. It reminds her of the way a Skitty can chase its tail for hours on end, completely ineffectually, only winding up exhausted and with nothing to show for it. Opposite her, Silver has set down his own shot glass on the countertop that was, at some point, white. He stares at it and waits for Blue to speak.

"So, first of all," Blue announces, with a clearing of her throat. She terminates the twirling of her shot glass by slapping it down on the countertop. She looks Silver in the eye. "I acknowledge that you were right, and in exchange for you never speaking of this ever again, I will grant you an entire month's worth of access to my television."

"Two," Silver demands.

"Done," Blue immediately acquiesces. "Now, and far more importantly: Augghhhhhhh," she groans.

"Yeah, that sounds about right."

"Why did this have to happen? There are seven million people in Castelia City, and out of all of them, I like the Interpol guy?"

"Eight million, actually. Which makes it even more impressive."

"This is beyond irony. It's more than ironic. It's post-ironic."

"That's not what post-ironic means."

"In fact, it's stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I should've never gone to The Drunken Spinda."

"I told you it was a bad idea," Silver reminds her.

"And he should've never joined Interpol. He should've been a Mareep farmer. Where all he does is live on a farm in the middle of a place that I've never even heard of, and he farms Mareep."

"…Are you done?" Silver asks her.

"No, I'm _not_ done," Blue retorts. "There's so much that needs to be said. I'm only getting started."

"Right. There's still three stages left to go," Silver sighs to himself, and pours himself another shot of tequila in preparation.

"Three stages?" Blue demands.

"You did denial. Now you're on anger," Silver says, ticking them off on his fingers. "After that comes bargaining, depression, and acceptance. So three stages left."

Blue scoffs at him. She grips her shot glass tight. She scoffs at him again. "I'm not angry. Look at me. Do I look angry?" She scoffs another time, for good measure.

Silver lazily roves an eye down to Blue's hand and its stranglehold on the shot glass. "…No. Because you're back on denial, now."

Blue ignores him. "I can't believe this. I didn't want to like him. I didn't even ask for it. I just wanted a fun night, because I was so bored! He wasn't supposed to be, so — so —" She gestures expansively with her hand in the air. She frowns. She points at Silver accusingly. "You knew this was going to happen. Why didn't you stop me?"

Silver opens his mouth.

"That was a rhetorical question. Don't answer that," Blue grimaces. She steals his shot glass of tequila and tosses it back, then returns the empty glass to Silver. Silver stares forlornly down at the missing alcohol.

"Where did it all go wrong?" Blue groans, rotating her shot glass between her fingers again. The glass has a marine motif, and now that Blue is looking for it, she can see a school of Luvdisc depicted on it. The sight makes her groan again.

Silver pours out another shot of tequila for himself. "I don't know. You could tell me what happened."

"No. I'm never talking about last night ever again. I won't talk about it, and it'll just… go away."

"Mm-hmm."

"I won't talk about how after he paid for my tab, which was really sweet, he stopped me from walking out into traffic, which was really sweet, too. Or how he gave me his jacket because it was cold outside. Or how his smile seemed so real when he told me not to cry and I thanked him for being a gentleman the entire night."

"Mm-hmm," Silver repeats disinterestedly.

"Or how his lips were chapped when I kissed him, or —"

Silver chokes on his tequila. "You what," he manages to stammer out between coughs.

"But I won't talk about last night ever again. I won't even remember it," Blue declares, and reaches for the tequila bottle to make good on that promise.

Silver grabs the bottle, denying Blue access. "You kissed him?" he demands, in the slightly higher tone of voice that Silver reserves for his most shocked of shocked reactions.

Blue presses her face into the counter and groans again. "Was that a mistake? Should I not have done that?"

"How did he react?"

"Hard to say," Blue mumbles onto the counter top.

"Hard to say?"

"Well, I don't know. He seemed kind of upset, but it's hard to tell if that was because I kissed him or because I handcuffed him to a street sign."

Silver chokes again, this time not on tequila. "You what."

"Was that a mistake? Should I not have done that, either?"

"It's worse than I thought," Silver mutters.

Blue leaps upright. "You know, maybe this is all just a misunderstanding. It's a phase. That's what it is. A fleeting attraction. The way you see a puppy doing something cute and want a puppy, but then you think about it and realize that you don't actually want a puppy, you want the _idea_ of a puppy."

"You've never wanted a puppy," Silver points out.

"Right, which is why I'm going to get a puppy," Blue declares. "That way the idea will be out of my head, and I won't have to worry about it anymore."

"You want to replace him with a dog."

Blue looks at Silver hopefully. "You think it will work?"

Silver radiates disapproval.

Blue sighs. "Of course I know it won't work." She collapses onto the counter top again. She forces her head up so she can look at Silver with baleful eyes. "I didn't sleep last night," she admits. "I couldn't stop thinking about everything. There are sixty-seven black dots on my bedroom ceiling. Did you know that? Sixty-seven. Or maybe sixty-six. There was one that overlapped with another one. I counted it as two, but maybe it was just one very splotchy one."

"The more you know."

Blue finds the energy to lift her head just far enough so she can cup it in her hands. "Silver, you have to help me," she whines. "It's only been a day, and I can't go on feeling all these feelings. You have to teach me how to become emotionally dead inside like you."

"You can't just teach debilitating apathy in a day."

"I'm a quick learner," Blue insists.

Silver sighs. "And even if you could, that doesn't solve the problem."

"You're sure? Because it sounds like a pretty good option from where I'm sitting."

"…Across from me?"

"I meant, where I'm sitting, metaphysically. Metaphorically? I don't know," Blue mopes. She stares down at her empty glass. The Luvdisc on it mock her. "All I know is that the guy I like is an Interpol agent. And I'm a thief. We're as star-crossed as Romeo and Juliet. I would've been better off not knowing. I would've been better off being bored for the rest of my life. Why did the universe decide that my life would be better as the punchline to a bad joke?"

Silver doesn't answer. He twists open the top of the tequila bottle. He fills Blue's shot glass, then his own. Blue gazes deep into her glass. There isn't enough tequila in the world to drown out her feelings. If only she could bottle her emotions like distilleries bottle tequila. Then she could set them aside on a shelf or in a cabinet, put them away and forget about them. It would be up to her to decide when and where and how to enjoy them. She could drink love like a well-aged wine.

But she can't. She can only drink tequila.

"How do I go on? Every time I so much as think about lifting something, I see his eyes. I drink, and I see his face. I breathe, and I feel his breath on my cheek. Wouldn't it be easy, just to walk up to him and confess? Just to say, 'Hello, I'm a thief and you're from Interpol, but please look past that because I think I like you and do you like me back?'"

Blue stares deep into her glass. "How am I supposed to do that? When he is who he is and I am who I am? I can't. And so all that's left, the only thing the universe will allow me to do, is just go about my day. That's it. To carry on, as if nothing had ever happened. To just pretend that everything's normal. To leave love behind like a gum wrapper," Blue murmurs. She watches the liquid inside her glass slowly settle into stillness. "What a crock."

"It does seem pretty bad," Silver agrees, rotating his glass between his fingers.

Blue forces a half-smile. "It must be, if you've given up the sarcasm. Unless you're saving your best for last."

Silver shakes his head. "No. This isn't something to make fun of."

"Why do things have to be this way?"

Silver shakes his head again. "Sometimes, fate isn't kind."

"No. It's not," Blue agrees. Silence descends between them. The light dangling from the ceiling in the kitchenette wavers; first, toward Blue, then away.

"What are you going to do?" Silver finally asks.

Blue ponders on her glass. "I don't know, yet. But, maybe… Maybe I'll do some traveling again. It'll give me some time to consider things. I think I've been tied down too long. A change of scenery might be nice, with, well. You know."

Silver nods. "Yeah. Have new experiences. Make new memories. It'll be good for you."

"I've never been to Kalos before. I've always wanted to go. Especially this time of year. See Prism Tower. Parfum Palace. Maybe catch a cycling competition or two."

"I've heard Cyllage City is beautiful."

"Do you want to come with me?"

Silver shakes his head. "I can't. I still have things I need to do here."

"I know — I just thought I'd ask."

"Thank you."

"Besides," Blue begins, making an effort at a teasing tone that still sounds hopelessly flat to her ear, "I know you really just want access to my television, anyway."

"You know me too well."

"Well, feel free to use it. I'm not going to need much of anything when I leave. You can ransack my apartment for all I care."

"Be careful what you wish for."

"And be careful what _you_ wish for. I might bring you back the most embarrassing souvenir you've ever seen."

"I'm looking forward to it," Silver smiles.

Blue looks past Silver into the rest of his small apartment. Even this early in the afternoon, the dim winter light is already starting to fade. "…I still have his coat, you know," Blue says quietly. "From last night."

"What are you going to do with it?"

"I don't know. I haven't really thought about it. I don't want to just throw it away. But I don't want — I _can't_ keep it. Not with…" she trails off.

"…Do you want me to hold onto it?" Silver ventures.

"No, that's okay," Blue tells him. "I'll figure something out."

"You should return it to him," Silver says, suddenly.

Blue frowns up at him. "Return it?"

"For closure. So it won't hang over you while you're gone. It'll be one less thing for you to think about — make it easier to get a fresh start."

Blue considers it. "I don't know. Maybe. I just — I don't know. I don't want to think about it. Not now, at least."

"I understand," Silver nods. "You'll be too busy planning your Kalos adventure, anyway."

Blue smiles wanly. "Less planning, more adventure, I think. It's vacation, after all."

Silver shakes his head. "No. A new beginning."

Blue considers his words. "Maybe it is."

Silver holds his shot glass up to the single, dangling light. "To new beginnings?" he suggests.

Blue takes her shot glass in hand. She taps it against his with a gentle _clink_. "To new beginnings," she confirms. She drinks the shot of tequila, and even though it isn't much, for now, it's enough. It has to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silver's tequila collection is second only to his collection of anime merch.


	9. Stealing a Kiss

Blake stares down at the postcard atop his desk.

"Is that —" Y begins.

"Yes."

"From —"

"Uh-huh."

"How did —"

"No idea." The postcard is a watercolor of Lumiose City — the depiction of the Prism Tower is a dead giveaway. In any other context, Blake would consider it picturesque. But right now, it's sitting on top of his coat ( _that_ coat, from _that_ night), which just so happens to be neatly folded, pressed, and dry-cleaned. (And Blake momentarily wishes it hadn't been dry-cleaned at all — _momentarily_ , because he catches himself and shoves that thought into the mental equivalent of an incinerator.)

He musters the courage to flip the postcard over. The same loopy handwriting that he's come to recognize is there:

_Poetry is hard._

_Meet me at Hennessy's Chateau for brunch at 10 a.m. on Thursday._

_(Come alone.) (Hello, Yvonne!) (Please tell Blake to go alone.)_

_Love,_

_The Water Thief_

"She's taunting me," Blake mutters aloud.

Y hums in agreement. "She's not even trying to rhyme anymore."

Blake scowls and tosses the postcard in the trash. He can practically hear Y raise an eyebrow.

"You're not going to go?" she asks.

"Why should I?" he asks back.

"It could be a lead on the case."

Blake grunts.

"We've been looking for clues forever. This could be a major breakthrough."

Blake grunts.

Y raises a considering finger. "I've heard the food is excellent."

Blake plunks himself down in his desk chair. "I don't care. It's probably a trap, just like before. Except this time she had the decency to sign her name. What's even with the postcards? Is that supposed to be — what, playful? And she has the audacity, the _nerve_ , to send one to me, like I'm just some, some low-level grunt?" Blake rants, crossing his arms. "Well, fine. I'll show her. I don't need her throwing bread crumbs at me — I can get evidence on her just fine. She thinks she's better than me. Well, she's not better than me. I can take her down on my own, without anyone's help, and especially without _her_ help."

Y glances down at the trash can. Blake fights the urge to retrieve the postcard, rip it up, and throw it away again.

"You know, you could ask her. About two weeks ago —"

"No," Blake huffs. "I'm not going, and that's final."

It's a total coincidence that Blake finds himself standing in front of Hennessy's Chateau a half-hour ahead of the appointed time. It's a total coincidence, Blake reminds himself, again, as he steps through the door, and if he just so happens to get the drop on Blue by arriving early, well, that's just Blake's Interpol intuition working.

Blue's intuition is working better: the maître'd confronts him as soon as he steps inside the lobby.

"Mr. Blake? We've been expecting you."

"Wuh — expecting me?" he sputters.

"Indeed. Your table has already been prepared. Right this way," says the bored-looking redheaded waiter with bored-looking eyes.

Blake blinks. "Y-you're the bartender from The Drunken Spinda," he stammers.

The redheaded waiter-slash-bartender nods.

"You're in cahoots with Blue, aren't you?"

The redheaded waiter-slash-bartender-slash-apparently-also-a-thief (and really, Blake should have expected that) nods.

Blake grimaces. "Of course you are. Are you busing tables as cover for stealing my wallet?"

"Oh, I wouldn't fret too much about that," says Blue, already seated at a table set for two, with a white-brimmed sunhat on her head and a half-empty mimosa in her hand. "There's no cover necessary — Silver's already stolen your wallet."

Right on cue, the redheaded waiter — Silver — produces Blake's wallet in his hand. Blake scowls and snaps it back from him. Silver stares flatly back.

"Take a seat, take a seat," Blue urges him. "And Silver, another mimosa, if you don't mind?"

Silver nods. "Of course. Would you care for a refreshment as well?"

"Just water," Blake grunts. "You make terrible mixed drinks."

"Your opinion means the world to me," Silver murmurs, and vanishes.

Blake studies the chair, trying to determine if it's booby-trapped. He tentatively sits. He's not immediately electrocuted. "Is he the friend you mentioned before?"

"Mm-hmm," Blue answers, looking over her menu.

"I should have known you had a partner in crime."

"Silver? Oh, heavens, no. I don't need his help. I do all my own heists, thank you."

"With pickpocketing skills like that, you expect me to believe he's not a criminal?"

Blue arches a wry eyebrow. "I didn't say that, now did I? But if you have nothing on me, you have even less on him."

Blake glowers at her. He glowers at his menu.

"You know, I really can't decide between the eggs benedict with the béchamel sauce, or the quiche florentine," she says ponderously, face hidden behind the menu. "I think I'm leaning toward —"

"Why am I here?" Blake interrupts her.

Blue peers at him over the top of her menu. "Is that a philosophical question?"

Blake ignores the jab. "Somehow you smuggled a postcard into my office telling me to meet you alone. You went through the trouble of arranging the reservation early. Because somehow you knew that if I was coming, I wouldn't come at ten like you said."

"I actually thought you would arrive earlier. I was nearly worried you wouldn't show."

"You wouldn't do any of that unless you want something from me. So what do you want?" Blake demands.

Blue gives him a forlorn frown. "Why, I only wanted to see your handsome face again."

Blake feels his fists clench. "Will you cut the bullshit, and just tell me what the f—"

"Your water," Silver announces, setting Blake's glass of water down with a heavy thunk. Blake makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. He tries to let himself relax. The water tastes metallic, as though it came straight from the faucet. Knowing who's serving him, it probably did.

"And your mimosa."

Blue smiles wide. "Oh, thank you so much."

Silver plucks a notepad and pencil from his uniform. "Are there any questions I can answer about the menu?"

Blue lets her eyes wander down to the menu. "I think I know what I want," Blue says. She looks up at Blake. "What about you, Blake?"

Blake glares back at her.

Blue frowns. "I think we're going to need another minute or two to decide. Is that all right, Silver?"

"Take your time," he answers, and retreats again.

Blue takes a long, careful sip of her mimosa. She evaluates him over the rim of the glass. "If I knew you were in such a bad mood, I wouldn't have invited you."

"I was in a good mood _until_ you invited me," Blake retorts.

"Am I really that horrible company?"

"You handcuffed me to a street sign."

"A necessary precaution, unfortunately. I couldn't have you following me. I'm sure you understand."

"You had me pay for your drinks."

"You _offered_ to pay for my drinks," Blue corrects him. "Which was really quite chivalrous of you. And to show you how much I appreciated it, I'm buying you brunch in return. Not just anyone can get reservations here. It's more than a fair trade."

"You'll have to excuse me if I'm a bit skeptical," Blake bristles.

"I forgive you," she smiles. "But there isn't any catch. You deserve a little R&R, anyway. You've been working so hard lately, trying to put that Water Thief away."

"If only there was something you could do about that."

"Right? The least I could do was buy you a decent brunch."

"Yeah," Blake grunts. "The absolute least you could do."

"And the second-least I could do is give you a thank-you present for coming," she adds, and retrieves a small, simple wooden box from her purse. She slides it over to Blake's side of the table. "This is for you."

Blake raises his eyebrows suspiciously. "Is this stolen?"

"Don't ask questions you don't want to hear the answer to."

"Hmph," Blake says, taking it in his hands. It's heavier than he would have expected. He unlatches the lock and flips the top open. His eyes widen in shock: inside is a gleaming Lustrous Orb.

"This is —"

"Something for you," Blue answers easily. "Obviously, I can't tell you how to feel. I can only tell you what I've told you. Whether you enjoy your brunch is entirely up to you."

Silver reappears at the side of the table. "Have you decided, or do you need more time?" he asks them, in the same dull voice as ever.

Blue glances at Blake, a question dancing in her eyes. Blake makes a noise that could be vaguely interpreted as one of assent. Blue smiles wide, and Blake is struck in the moment by how open it is.

"I think we're ready," she announces, and points at an item on the menu. "I'll have the quiche florentine, light on the bacon, please."

Blake scans the menu for the most expensive item. It's the salmon crepes.

"I'll have the salmon crepes," Blake says. He hates salmon.

Silver nods and whisks their menus away. Silence descends on the table. With the menus gone, there is nothing left to hide behind, and Blake is forced to turn his attention to the woman seated across the table from him. Blue, who had never shied away from examining Blake over her menu, is now studiously avoiding his gaze. Her fingers tap against the tablecloth in an uncertain metronomic motion, and she's silent, even though she's never lacked for words before. It's a sentiment that Blake shares: he's all too aware of the tap-tap-tapping of his own foot bouncing against the flagstone patio.

"Thank you for returning my coat," he finally says, to break the silence.

"Not at all," Blue replies. "It was wonderfully comfortable."

Blake can't summon the ability to craft a response beyond a grunt. Silence seeps back into the air. Blue looks away from him again, as though her attention is occupied somewhere else, as though she's determined to keep her attention occupied somewhere else, and Blake feels his chest tighten at the thought that in the cloudy, gray light, Blue could very nearly disappear like mist.

"You still haven't told me," he says, figuring that if he's that desperate to keep conversation going, he might as well get some answers out of it.

Blue raises her eyebrows. "Told you what?"

"Why you invited me. To The Drunken Spinda."

Blue frowns. "I didn't invite you."

"You may as well have. You had Silver tip off Interpol, knowing that I would follow up on it. Then I did, and made a fool of myself at the bar. You could have let me sit in the corner with my water, and I would've left and never known you were ever there."

Blue taps her fingers again. "I suppose I could have," she says noncommittally.

"But you didn't do any of that. You approached me. You let me pay for your drinks. You let me walk you — well, not home, but through the city, at least. There were any number of moments that you could've slipped up, or someone could've recognized you. You could've been arrested on the spot."

"It's cute that you think that."

"I've thought about it a lot. And it seems stranger every time," Blake admits. He's arranged and rearranged the puzzle pieces from that night countless times, and he's only been able to form a mangled mess. "Everything you did that night put you in danger of getting caught. You did it anyway." He briefly examines his glass of water, still mostly full, and then looks at Blue, and watches as she barely perceptibly flicks her eyes away for the briefest of moments. "Why?"

"You were the one who called me confident," she tells him mischievously.

"You are confident," Blake agrees. "But you're not stupid. You don't evade Interpol for three years through stupidity. And you don't evade Interpol for three years by inviting Interpol officers to bars and handcuffing them to street signs."

"How do you know I haven't handcuffed Interpol officers to street signs before?"

"The rumor mill at headquarters is first-rate."

"Well, your rumor mill is right. You're the first person I've handcuffed to a street sign. That makes you special," Blue teases him.

Blake feels the odd sensation of having his stomach fill with elation in one moment and gnarl itself into a whirlpool in the very next.

"That's just it, isn't it?" he breathes.

"Oh? What is?"

Blake licks his lips, suddenly realizing how chapped they are. "What you just said. That I'm special," he says. The back of the chair feels as if it's prodding into the small of his back. He reshuffles himself into the chair. "You wanted to see me," he states, entirely matter-of-fact, because it is.

Blue seems stunned for a moment — for once, her easy smile has flattened out, her twinkling eyes have turned pale, and her lips, ever-quick with a gently lilting wit, have gone quiet. It's the look Blake sees on criminals' faces when they realize exactly how much he knows. It's a look that Blake has never seen on Blue's face before, until now, and he doesn't notice how much he prefers seeing her smile, until now.

"It's the only possibility consistent with the evidence," he carries on, realizing again that his lips are more chapped than he wishes they were. "Hypothesis No. 1 is that you're reckless. You invited me to The Drunken Spinda as a bizarre practical joke. But that doesn't make sense. You've managed to avoid Interpol for years. Even if you have a flair for the dramatic — the incident in Lilycove comes to mind — you're cunning and quick on your feet. As I said before, you're confident, not stupid. So scratch Hypothesis No. 1.

"Hypothesis No. 2 is that you made a mistake. It happens to everybody — you couldn't leave well enough alone and, on an impulse, you walked up to me. Before you knew it, I was walking you home. You panicked, and the only way you could think of to get out of it was to leave me in cuffs. But if that was really a momentary lapse in judgment, you wouldn't have had Silver tip off Interpol. You wouldn't have arranged for Silver to kick us out of the bar. And you definitely wouldn't have made the same mistake twice by inviting me to brunch afterward. So scratch Hypothesis No. 2.

"Which brings me to Hypothesis No. 3," Blake says, feeling very much like a stray branch caught up in a river's current, about to tumble over a waterfall, and unsure if he's frightened or eager or both. "Hypothesis No. 3 is that, for some reason, you wanted to meet me. Given your profession — and mine — you can't exactly stroll into my office. So you engineered a situation for us to meet at The Drunken Spinda. You feigned drunkenness as your cover, and let me walk you home, not because of any mistake, but because you wanted that all along. That inspired you to take the somewhat riskier move of sending a postcard straight to my office. I'm sure you accounted for the chance that I wouldn't show up, as well as the chance that I would bring all of Interpol along with me. You did it anyway, which means that in spite of those possibilities, whatever it is that you want from me is very important to you."

Blake pauses, briefly noting that Blue hasn't stopped him or even tried to. He realizes that he'd been going about solving the question entirely the wrong way. He'd assumed there was only one puzzle, but in reality there were two: the puzzle named "Blue," and the puzzle named "Blake." And now that Blake has separated out the pieces, the two images snap themselves together like magnets, and Blake realizes that, in spite of everything, the answer to both questions is the same.

"The thing you want," he finishes, seeking not an answer but confirmation, "is me."

Blue manages to stutter out a laugh. It's hasty and forced and absolutely not the self-assured flute-like trill that has been dancing around in Blake's head for weeks and days and nights. "Are you a fan of elaborate jokes?" she chides him. "And here I thought you were serious. You never told me you were such a funny guy."

"You said you liked serious guys. You weren't lying, were you?" Blake continues, certainly and uncertainly, confidently and nervously, very much aware of the answer and of everything that means.

Blue's eyes fidget. Her fingers tap the table at random intervals. She scoffs, more for her benefit than Blake's. "What you're proposing — that's not a plausible theory at all."

"After you eliminate all other possibilities, whatever remains, no matter how impossible, must be the truth."

"What dime-store book of quotes did you get that from? I'm telling you, it's impossible."

"We're experts at making the impossible possible," Blake tells her. "Both of us."

Blue goes quiet, staring at him, considering his words, looking as though a million thoughts are racing through her head; and Blake knows this because he's certain he looks the same. Finally, something changes in her countenance: a veil falls from her eyes. She edges infinitesimally closer to him over the table. "Impossible, huh?" she answers, eyes agleam. "Nothing's more impossible than my heists."

"Don't worry. I can drag the answer out of you," Blake rumbles back. Some unimportant portion of his brain registers that she's leaning over the table toward him, and he's leaning over the table toward her, and Blake can smell her perfume, and he was right that night, because she does smell crisp and clean and adventurous like the ocean.

"Doesn't Interpol forbid interrogating ordinary civilians?"

"You're no ordinary civilian."

"And you're no ordinary Interpol officer."

"Do you mean that as a compliment?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you do."

"Good instincts."

"Good. Because so did I," Blake tells her, appreciating the way her hair cascades down to frame her face, appreciating the way her breath wisps like steam over his skin, appreciating the way it makes him feel. He hesitates. "Were you telling me the truth that night?" he whispers. "About who you liked. About when we kissed."

A flicker of uncertainty appears on her face. She looks away for a fraction of a second. "I don't know," she admits, eyes wider than Blake is used to seeing, and between that and her flushed face, her cobalt blue eyes seem all the bluer.

Blake is sure his face is flushed, too. "Do you want to find out?" he hears himself ask, his voice sounding strange to his ears, heavy and somehow out of breath.

She smiles, and it's not the foxlike grin that she usually wears, but something small, bright, and sincere. Blake thinks it looks like the sunrise over Castelia Harbor.

"I think I do," she murmurs, closing her eyes and leaning closer, and for an unknowable number of eternal moments, Blake thinks the sunrise could last forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actually, Blake is wrong: salmon crepes are delicious and everybody should try them.


	10. Stealing Home

Silver had always derided Blue's sense of time as terrible. Blue much preferred the term "flexible." She had never taken to learning the days of the week or the months of the year as a child, and saw no reason to change as an adult. Even now, days of the week were easily forgotten; months were useful solely for keeping track of the changing seasons. She made it a small point of pride that she adhered to nobody's schedule but her own. On the rare occasions that scheduling something was a requirement, Blue outsourced the task to Silver, who would, after much grumbling, nonetheless make the appropriate accommodations. Otherwise, Blue marked time based on how long it took to steal a diamond, or when the light of the full moon would give her presence away, or how long it would be until Silver's birthday.

Now, Blue measures time in terms of furtive glances and secret rendezvous. Days are spent alternating between too-short lunch liaisons and too-long bouts of aloneness. Nights pass in a blur of sweat and panted breaths, made more intense by the reality that even she cannot suspend time, and everything is all too short because of it.

Blue does not begrudge Blake for his commitments. He lives in a different world than she does, obligated to adhere to his own realities by the twin masters of social convention and a paycheck. His job entails long hours and regular hours. He spends hours abroad but mostly hours at a desk, working like clockwork on the task in front of him. Blue does not understand the appeal of it; if she did, she would've chosen it for herself. Blake's life is as foreign to Blue as Silver's love for children's cartoons. But when the clock finally ticks down and Blake's hours are done, there are a handful of moments that are for her, and that is enough.

Blake, in turn, does not begrudge Blue for hers. She spends days at a time absent from Castelia City entirely. Sometimes, she is as close as Humilau City, smuggling pearls from the market overflowing with tourists, and she can imagine that Blake has merely returned to Castelia City early. At others, she is as far as Rustboro City, pilfering R&D from the Devon Corporation, and it is all she can do to count the number of sunsets until they are in the same city again. Her life is one that is constantly on the move, even if its center of gravity is now based around a particular person, and she makes an effort to return whenever she can. And when the stars align just so, Blake emerges from his world, and Blue emerges from hers, and for a single, fleeting night, they permit themselves to forget that they live in different worlds entirely.

They do what they can to meet when they can: at a park one night, a cheap diner on another, a sleazy motel the next. The place is always different, and it is always neutral ground. Blake does not invite her to the coffee shops frequented by Interpol; Blue does not bring him to the lounges where she knows people who owe her a favor. They never discuss work — not that there is much opportunity to. The time they have together is always rare and short, and Blue would much rather spend it on memorizing the way Blake's eyes catch the moonlight, on savoring the feel of warm hands against her back, on learning the ways her touch can make his breath hitch in his throat.

Blue pulls her legs up to her chest and leans back against the wall, watching rain tumble down the window. This particular hotel had been a lucky find. Renovated from an abandoned warehouse in Nacrene City, it was unassuming on the outside and unassuming on the inside. The room was spacious yet sparse, with warm wood paneling and a slanted ceiling, and floorboards that creaked when you stepped on them. Through the fog and rain curtaining the window, she can see a handful of buildings on the outskirts of Nacrene City speckled in between waves of trees. In the gray dawning light, the pine trees of Pinwheel Forest stand like a box of sepia-colored pencils, crowned by verdant green hats. Water drops languidly onto the roof and drifts down the window, as if even the water is content for time to slow and linger.

"What're you watching?" Blake's voice rumbles out, a vibrating timbre made all the heavier by the grasp of sleep.

Blue turns away from the window. The bed creaks with movement, and Blue watches as Blake turns himself over in between the layers of sheets and blankets. His gaze is hazy with sleep, and Blue can't help but smile at the idea that even Blake — sharp-eyed and sharp-minded Blake — has to wake himself up in the mornings.

"What are you smiling for?" he demands suspiciously, and even as the words leave his lips, Blue can see his brain trying to churn itself to life, his eyes hardening, his mouth curling into a frown.

"Just thinking about how cute you look in the morning," Blue teases him lightly.

"Hm," Blake mumbles, face softening. The sheets rustle.

"That's all?"

Blake rubs his head against the pillow, in a gesture that is probably meant to be a nod. "Come back to bed."

"Or what?" Blue asks him impishly, sliding herself off the bench and padding with silent feet across the floor.

"Or I'll take all the blankets."

"You're terrible."

Blake defiantly wraps himself tighter. Blue slips in between the covers. She luxuriates in the warmth of the bedding, and even now, feels the slightest of thrills in knowing that there is another body, next to hers, responsible for that warmth. She allows her hand to wander across his chest. Blake shuffles himself just the slightest bit closer to her in response, and lays an arm across her back; with the other, he reaches out and threads a hand through her hair. Blue closes her eyes and relaxes into his touch, enjoying the feel of Blake's hand running through her hair and scratching her scalp. She brings her hand to rest just above his collar, can feel his pulse underneath his skin.

"I was thinking about running off to Kalos, you know."

Blake's hand stops. "You were?"

Blue opens her eyes. "I meant, before. When I first realized," she clarifies, and belatedly realizes that her phrasing didn't actually clarify much at all. But Blake starts stroking her hair again, and Blue even more belatedly realizes that further explanation isn't really necessary.

"I understand," Blake says. "I spent an entire bottle of vodka trying to figure out what was wrong with me."

"I'm glad you still have a liver."

The conversation fades. Blue doesn't mind. She is cocooned in downy warmth, and so is Blake: two bodies sharing the same room, the same blankets, the same breath, the same hands and arms and legs. A world away, the steady drumbeat of rain dwindles to an intermittent tapping, watching and waiting.

"Why didn't you?" Blake eventually asks.

"Hm?"

"Run off to Kalos. Like you said."

Blue considers the question. "I was going to," she admits, with as much of a shake of the head as she can manage with her head resting atop a pillow. "But I needed to give back your coat. And… I wanted to say goodbye."

"So, that was the reason for brunch, then?"

"Mm-hmm. It was a way to say _adieu_ , without saying it. I couldn't imagine — between you and me, a thief and Interpol — well, you understand," she admits. She moves her hand to brush back a strand of hair that's fallen in front of Blake's face, then returns it to the back of his shoulder. "I was going to leave that night."

Blake hums. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For brunch," he says, and takes her hand from his shoulder to hold it in his. His grip is warm and firm, like a promise. "I didn't know what I was feeling. I think, part of me didn't want to acknowledge it. Because of how impossible it felt."

"Well, you said it, didn't you?" Blue reminds him, and grips his hand back. "We're experts at making the impossible possible. Both of us."

"Yeah."

"I didn't ever think you'd figure it out. Let alone, feel the same."

"You don't give Interpol enough credit."

"Only when they earn it."

"Haven't I?"

"I'd say you have," Blue teases, and nudges herself closer to him, and presses a tender kiss onto his neck. Blake murmurs a breathy note of contentment, and nuzzles into the crook of her neck, and kisses her back.

"I'm glad you didn't leave," he whispers, and Blue feels, rather than hears, the sincerity against her skin.

"Me too," she whispers back, and wraps her arms around Blake's back, and Blake wraps his arms around hers, and they hold fast onto each other's touch.

A world away from them, the rain picks up again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's just something about lazy rainy mornings... that makes you want to go live someplace warmer.


	11. Stealing a March

Y stamps on Blake's foot.

"Earth to Blake," she grunts. "Did you have too many black Russians last night?"

"What? No, I only had two — and anyway, that's not the point. I'm fine," he insists.

"You better be. Because Lady Berlitz herself is here," she says, nudging Blake's shoulder. Blake turns himself to the doorway of the small Interpol conference room, and finds that Y's statement is indeed accurate: Platinum has spotted them, and dances over to them with a cheery smile and starry eyes.

"Oh, Mr. Blake and Ms. Y! It is such a wonderful pleasure to see you again."

Blake shakes his head good-naturedly. "No need for the formalities, please. Just Blake is fine."

"You seem to be in good spirits," Y adds with a mildly bemused smile. "I'm sure you were happy to hear the news."

"You are absolutely correct. I am so excited!" she proclaims. "I never would have imagined I'd be able to see it in person. Casteliacones are truly the delicacy I've always heard them to be."

"Um?" Y says, eyebrows raised.

"The texture was so rich and creamy, I was at a loss for words. I shall have to purchase the recipe before I return to Sinnoh. Will $500,000 be sufficient, do you suppose?"

"Er, that may be… a bit much," Blake hedges.

"You may be right. Something such as this must be enjoyed year-round. It demands a per annum payment."

"Regardless of ice cream," Y interrupts, "Interpol is pleased to report that we believe we have recovered the Lustrous Orb. We'd like to take the opportunity to return it to you."

"Ah, yes! In all the excitement, I very nearly forgot. Thank you so very much for your efforts," Platinum says, and holds out her hands.

Blake gazes down at the box containing the Lustrous Orb. He's never paid much attention to the box Blue gave to him before (he'd been more concerned with what was inside), but now he notes the lack of frills and encrusted baubles on its surface. The box is elegant in its simplicity, a marked contrast with the flair that is Blue's calling card, and seems somehow more reflective of Blake's taste, and Blake dwells a little on the stray thought that the box was selected with him in mind.

Y clears her throat. Blake snaps back to the task at hand.

"I'd be happy to take the credit, but my partner really did most of the work," Y announces. She shoots Blake a side-eyed glance. It's a clear indication that buying another bottle of Talonflame whiskey is in his future.

"It's our job, after all," Blake hastily pipes up, offering the box to Platinum. He simultaneously thanks Y for keeping him on track and mourns the hole in his wallet. "We couldn't prevent it from being stolen, so recovering the Lustrous Orb was our top priority."

Platinum smiles. "I really cannot overstate my gratitude. This is a priceless family heirloom."

"We apologize for not being able to find the perpetrator," Y says. "But we will find them and bring them to justice."

Blake nods along, hopefully convincingly.

Platinum shakes her head. "The particulars are unimportant. The mere fact that the Lustrous Orb has been returned is more than sufficient for me to be content. I am truly grateful to Interpol for all of your efforts." She lifts the orb from its box to examine it more closely.

"This really is thanks to you," Y points out, in a low voice. "We would have never found where The Water Thief stashed the Lustrous Orb without all the legwork you put in."

"I was just lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time," he answers modestly.

"Well, I sure hope you keep getting lucky."

Blake thinks of the ocean. It's something he's become quite familiar with over the past handful of months. "Me too," he says.

Blake is interrupted by the sound of shattering glass. He looks at Platinum. At her feet are the broken shards of the Lustrous Orb.

"W-what just —?" he stammers.

"It is as I suspected," Platinum announces severely. "After close inspection, this piece of glass is indeed a forgery."

"What?" Y demands.

"A forgery?" Blake parrots helplessly.

"I am afraid that is the case," Platinum says. "Whoever is responsible for its construction must be quite the skilled craftsman. I must admit I am impressed — I should like to meet such a masterful forger someday. Of course, this means that the location of the Lustrous Orb is still unknown."

This time, there is no siren to drown out the sound of Blake's swearing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please ignore the fact that there is a drink called a black Russian in a world where Russia does not exist.


	12. Stealing an Identity

Hotel de' Medici is quite possibly the most haughtily _nouveau_ _riche_ structure in all of Castelia City. Its exterior boasts more marble than a quarry, and it's adorned with more crystal than the Steven Stone collection. Moreover, it's within walking distance of every single one of the twelve most fashionable retailers favored by the young professional elite. (The thirteenth is a five-minute taxi ride.) It's to the point where even Blue, never one to be shy about showing off an elegant string of pearls with a matching dress, is obligated to raise an eyebrow.

It is also the place that Blake has booked for their first rendezvous in just over a week. Given what she knows of Blake's tastes, the choice had been somewhat unexpected. But then again, the thrill of the unexpected is part of the charm.

Blue allows herself to be carried down the sidewalk by the flow of pedestrians. They are all dressed as if for a job interview, some in light jackets, some without, flicking their eyes down at their phones, then up, then down again. When they wave apart, Blue catches glimpses. Once, a storefront window. Another time, a street sign. A third, a panhandler. Blue swims through the crowd toward him. He's folded up underneath an awning, with a scraggly beard and a face worn with creases. He gazes up at her with wondering eyes.

"Here," she says, holding a fistful of bills out to him.

He pauses a moment, as if unsure. Then he clutches at the strips of paper. "T-thanks, Miss," he croaks, and tucks them into the recesses of his coat.

Blue glances around at the pedestrians flowing past them, like water slipping past a stone in a stream. "Buy yourself something nice for dinner," she tells him. "And don't hang around here. The police do a sweep around this time of night."

"A-ah, thank you. I'll move on. May the Lord bless you," he says, shuffling deeper into his coat, and then he and Blue are separated by the rush of people again.

The hotel is only a block away, and Blue slips out of the river of pedestrians before she's carried off like a leaf downstream. Blue makes for the entrance. A boyish-faced valet holds the door — a gleaming, glass thing — open for her; and Blue smiles in acknowledgement. The lobby is just as polished as she expected, with gilded desks and pristine armchairs and glittering vases sprouting everywhere like weeds. She stands there for only as much time as it takes to identify the elevators, and presses her foot into the carpet while she waits for the floor numbers to ascend. It takes all of thirty seconds from when the elevator dings and the doors whoosh open for Blue to make her way down the sixth floor hallway and knock at the door that Blake's marked down for her.

Blake opens the door and immediately captures her lips in a kiss.

"Eager, aren't we?" she teases him, after pulling away. Even after everything, there's still a nervous flush on his face.

"How can I not be?" Blake answers. His eyes linger on hers. "You're beautiful."

"I'm sure you say that to everyone."

"No. Only you," he says, and leans in again and wraps his arms around her and holds her close, and Blue has to stop her heart from fluttering in her chest.

She presses a finger to his lips and pushes him away. "Easy, tiger," she chides him. "There'll be plenty of time for that in a moment."

"With you, there's never enough time," he says, and makes to kiss her again.

"Even so, perhaps doing this with the door open isn't a good idea, hm?"

Blake makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. He leans away, but doesn't remove his hands from Blue's back, and the two of them as one stumble backward into the room. Blake nudges the door closed with his foot. Blue is too preoccupied to hear it click shut.

"How about now?" Blake grunts, hands never once leaving her. He moves them from her shoulders, down her dress, toward the small of her back.

"Better," Blue says airily. She reaches behind her and takes Blake's hands in her own, plucking them from where they're riding her back, and holds them in front of her. "But I haven't even had the chance to appreciate the room yet."

"Why bother appreciating the room when you can appreciate me?"

"How much time did you spend coming up with that one-liner?"

"Not as much time as I want to spend with you."

"Good lord. That one's even worse," Blue says, with a roll of her eyes. She pushes him just a nudge away, and runs her hands through her hair, disentangling stray strands caught between her fingers, even though she knows she'll have to brush her hair again too soon. "I'm assigning you a time-out as punishment."

"Oh, come on," Blake complains. "That was a good one and you know it."

"I'll never admit it," Blue answers, and pats him lightly on the shoulder. She glances around the room. It's lightly furnished, but it's of a kind with the rest of the hotel: a round, glass-topped table; a pair of cream-white chairs; and a single, king-sized bed. "I certainly hope you didn't spend too much on this place."

Blake eases himself onto the bed. "Is it worth it?"

Blue nods. "I think so. I didn't imagine you'd pick a place like this. Have you been here before?"

"No," Blake admits. "But it comes highly recommended."

"By who?"

"Classified."

"Spoilsport."

"You know it," he answers easily, rearranging himself so he's reclining on his side, facing Blue, with his hand propping up his head. He's still dressed in slacks and a dress shirt, though at least he's removed his tie. It's folded neatly atop the table by the window. Blue looks past it, out the window and down into the city below. Even with the streetlights on and squares of light appearing from the mass of skyscrapers, Blue can barely make out the pavement far below them. A single, shadowy mass of people moves in the twilight.

She is searching for the panhandler from earlier when she feels Blake's arms wrap around her waist. He rests his head on her shoulder.

"What are you thinking about?" he murmurs. His breath tickles her ear.

"I saw a homeless man outside the hotel earlier. I was just wondering whether he's moved on before the police come by."

Blake stills. "The police?"

"Mmm," Blue answers. She rests her hand on Blake's hand. Blake's hand rests on her hip. "They patrol this area for loiterers right about now. I didn't want him caught up in it."

He relaxes again. "They're only doing their job."

"I know. Even so…" Blue trails off. She curls her hand around Blake's. Blake grips it back. "I always keep an eye out. For people who are where I was, once."

The two of them gaze silently out the window into the darkened cityscape below.

"Don't worry," Blake reassures her. "He's the reasonable sort. I'm sure he's followed your advice."

"I hope so," Blue agrees.

Blake takes her hands in his and turns her around to face him. "But let's not dwell on that. Not when there are other things we could be doing."

Blue feels her lips curl upward in spite of herself. "Oh? And what other things might those be?"

Blake grins back. "Well, for instance…" he whispers, suddenly somehow even closer, and it takes only another second for him to kiss her. His breath smells like peppermint. His lips are smoother than before, and Blue notes in subdued satisfaction that it means that he's taken to using chapstick more often. She tilts her head, and Blake does the same, and for the briefest of moments, Blue allows herself to be swept up in everything that Blake is.

Blake pulls away from her. "Bed?" he suggests, and Blue is all too happy to follow his lead. Blake guides her, walking backward, never once allowing his eyes to leave Blue's, and they make their way over, careful not to become caught in a tangle of legs, movements languid with the knowledge of what comes next. Blake is only a foot away when Blue impishly shoves him down onto the bed. Blake collapses onto it, eagle-armed. The mattress creaks.

"That's not very nice," he scolds her, without heat.

"Don't tell me you didn't find it charming," Blue purrs back.

"Everything you do is charming," Blake answers with a flirtatious wink.

"I thought so." She lowers herself onto the bed and affixes herself atop his lap and slides her arms over his shoulders and rests her hands on his back and leans closer toward him and looks into Blake's reddish-brown eyes the color of clay and suddenly stops.

"What's wrong?" he asks her.

Blue gazes at him for a moment. Something unknowable retreats into the recesses in the back of her mind. She shakes her head. "No, it's nothing," she says after a pause.

"Are you sure?"

"It's just. You've never been here before, right?"

Blake stares back at her. "Yeah." He frowns. "Do you not like it?"

Blue shakes her head again. "No, I do. Except for the yuppies strutting around like they own the place."

Blake looks relieved. "Oh, good. It's not really my taste, but I thought you might appreciate it. More than me, anyway."

"A bit lavish, but nobody complained about being treated like royalty for a night."

"You deserve it," Blake tells her, and props himself up on his elbows. Blue leans in toward him. She kisses him, and tucks herself away like a piece of paper back into a corner of her mind, surrendering herself to the moment and the experience and her feelings, seeing and sensing nothing but Blake's serious face and mussed chestnut hair and neatly pressed shirt, and she dangles over the precipice ready to drown in desire, when the cord lashing her to reality instantly goes taut and yanks her back from the point of no return.

Blue scrambles upright.

Blake grumbles. "What now?"

"You've never been here before," Blue repeats.

"That's what I said, didn't I?"

Blue's mind races. "The homeless man."

Blake's eyebrows furrow in bewilderment. "What about him? I'm starting to think you like him more than me," he complains.

"You said he was the reasonable sort."

"Yeah, I —"

"But you've never been here before," Blue breathes, eyes wide and staring down at the man she's called Blake. "How do you know that?"

Blake's entire body looks ready to snap — his arms still, his mouth open like a fish, his breath caught somewhere in his throat where Blue cannot see.

Blue has only an instant before Blake springs up from the bed and lunges at her. She cries out as she hits the floor. The carpet fails to cushion her fall. Hands she once knew fasten onto her wrists. Eyes she once recognized are glaring down at her.

"You're too clever. But I always liked that about you."

Blue's eyes watch lips move and Blue's ears hear a voice rumble, but they seem unidentifiable, unfamiliar, unmatching, like a glitch on a television screen that makes you squint your eyes and concentrate and focus because something's not quite right, and the dissonance causes Blue to recover herself and shove a knee into Blake's gut.

Blake grunts, but doesn't flinch. His grip does not slacken. "Don't bother," he says with a derisive snort. "Interpol's defense suit is the best there is."

"You planned this," Blue asserts, writhing uselessly underneath him.

"For a week," he confirms, matter-of-factly. "It took forever to get the higher-ups to sign off."

"Then you're not alone."

"I'm not."

"When should I expect your friends to arrive?"

"Only a few minutes. I hope you don't have any plans for tonight."

Blue sneers. "Only spending it with you."

"Good," Blake announces, maneuvering Blue's hands over her head and adjusting his grip so he has a free hand. He reaches out behind him, and out of the corner of her eye, Blue can see him retrieve a set of handcuffs stowed away in the nightstand. "Although there might be a change of venue. Prison would suit you better than this hotel, to be honest."

"I'm glad you've decided to be honest about _something_ ," Blue snarls at him.

"I could say the same thing to you," Blake snarls back. "I'm not some lovesick schoolboy. Did you think you could pull a fast one on me and get away with it?"

"What are you even talking about?"

"Don't play cute. I won't fall for that anymore. You can't lead me around by the nose like a dog."

"You know what?" Blue retorts. "That's a good idea." And without further warning, she flings her head up and into Blake's nose.

Blake curses. Blue shifts her weight to the side. Blake is knocked off-balance; Blue manages to wrest her hands free. He grunts, and makes for her hands again, but she wriggles away. He latches onto her legs instead, holding her down. Blue tries a kick, but Blake has managed to wrap an arm around her shins, and his body weighs them down like a block of lead. He moves to secure the handcuffs around her legs. Blue jolts upright and grabs at them, only for Blake to swing them forward and knock her on the temple. Pain sears through her skull. She ignores it. Her fingers brush against metal. She closes her hand. She yanks hard.

The cuffs fly free from Blake's grasp, and the sudden release of tension causes Blue to fall back onto the carpet, cuffs in hand. Blake curses again and lunges for them, but Blue is faster, and hurls them up at the ceiling, where they catch on the chandelier and dangle just out of reach. The chandelier teeters.

"Rude," Blake grunts.

"Not as rude as hitting a lady," Blue shoots back, and flings a fist at his face.

Blake effortlessly catches her hand in his palm. "You're no lady. Only a criminal," he growls, and twists her wrist hard.

Blue grits her teeth, refusing to show pain. "Then get glasses."

Blake tugs her to her feet. Blue aims a kick at his shin. He dodges. "And after you handcuffed me, too," he sighs. "Letting me do the same to you is only fair."

"Life's not fair, buster."

Blake's eyes turn to stone. "You're right. It's not," he agrees, and in a single movement, he whirls her around, grabs her other hand, and yanks both hands behind her back. She attempts to pull free. Blake refuses to let go.

"But it doesn't have to be fair. I can make do without," Blake finishes, tightening his grip over her wrists, and Blue can't help but wince. She tries to tug her hands free again, but it's a futile effort. Blake's vice grip does not let up. "But I can't say the same for everyone you've stolen from. They don't deserve what you brought on them. That's why I'm here. The story of The Water Thief ends tonight."

"No wonder Interpol likes you. I've never heard such sanctimonious garbage," Blue spits at the wall.

"Call it whatever you want," Blake retorts. "I'm not the one going to prison tonight."

Blue glances down at the carpet. She shifts her weight. "Neither am I," she declares, and throws her foot backward, and feels a surge of satisfaction when the blade hidden in the heel of her shoe pierces Blake's leg.

Blake swears with a gasping breath, and Blue uses the opportunity to break free of his grip and elbow him in the stomach where the breath leaves the body. Blake stumbles backward onto the floor. Blue wastes no time in making for the door — only to stop short when the handle begins to rattle.

"Doesn't… matter," Blake pants, his face contorted with pain, blood beginning to crust over his nose. His left leg is bent at an awkward angle, and his breaths come out sharp and uneven. "They're here. You're… too late. This time."

Blue's mind swims. There's a door to the bathroom — that would get her nowhere. The front door leads straight to Interpol. That leaves her one option. She glances out the window.

Blake realizes just as she does. He instantly scrambles to get to his feet, only to fall back, clutching his leg and hissing in pain. "You can't!" he cries out, in a failed attempt at a shout. "That's… suicide!"

Blue looks through the window, at the yellow lights dotting the city like fireflies. Blue looks at the hotel door, the yellow light from the hallway beginning to spill into the room as the door swings open.

"Blue," Blake's voice rasps.

Blue looks at Blake, as if for the first time, as if for the last time, his neatly-pressed shirt crumpled and dirtied, his slacks torn and a dark splotch pooling just above the knee, one hand supporting his leg and the other pressed up against the wall for balance and neither reaching for the weapon he surely has attached to his waist, and on the face gnarled into a gaunt and haggard grimace, above the crimson blood crusting beneath his nose and onto his lips, below the hair that's matted with sweat and oil and blood and plastered onto his forehead — in between it all, Blue sees reddish-brown eyes the color of clay that are wide with fear.

"Blue," Blake's voice rasps, again.

Blue turns away from him. She runs, and breaks into the sky.


	13. Stealing Time

The lights in Blake's office suddenly click on. Blake is forced to squint.

"You're still here?" Y wonders incredulously from the doorway. "It's after ten."

Blake grunts an acknowledgment. "So are you," he points out, and immediately returns his attention to the documents laid out on his computer screen.

"Because I went home, realized I forgot paperwork, and came back to pick it up," she says, folding her arms. "But from the looks of it, you never left."

"I have a job, and I have work to do. I need to do it."

"Have you eaten?" Y asks.

Blake doesn't need to respond for Y to know that the answer is no.

Y sighs. "What you need is a break, and some sleep."

"If crime doesn't sleep, then neither do I."

"That sounds like a great way to give yourself a heart attack."

Blake flits his eyes between a page of testimony and a pair of financial records. Nothing doing.

"What's so important that you can't be bothered to leave the Interpol office by ten at night?"

"It's the woman from earlier today. She's lying."

"You've found something?"

"Not yet. But I will," Blake grunts, fumbling for a pen without looking away from his computer screen. His hand finally finds one, and he pries the cap off with his teeth before underlining a pair of statements, circling a transaction, flipping a half-dozen pages, and scribbling down a couple notes about how they show the woman's been embezzling funds right under her boss' nose. There's the soft creak of a body sitting down in the chair opposite him. Blake maintains his focus on the woman's testimony. He hears Y clear her throat.

"Blake," she announces.

Blake grumbles, and forces himself to look away from his notes. He spits the pen cap onto his desk. "What," he demands.

Y looks into her lap for a moment, as if collecting her thoughts. Blake is about to grunt in annoyance and return to his work when Y finally speaks. "Are you sure about this?" she asks him.

Blake scowls at her. "Please, be more vague."

"No need to be snide," Y retorts. "I meant about Ms. Danfeld. How can you be so sure she's lying?"

Blake rolls his eyes dismissively. "You were in the same room as me. It should be beyond obvious."

"Feel free to enlighten me with whatever you've found that's so obvious."

"You saw how she reacted when I pressed her. That's enough for me," Blake declares with an air of finality. "I know she's guilty. I just have to prove it."

"Well, I guess now's as good a time as any," Y says by way of preamble, stiffening. "But I didn't particularly like how you treated Ms. Danfeld today."

Blake swivels away from Y and back to the papers littering his desk. "Well, good news: you don't have to like it."

"Of course she's going to be nervous," Y insists. "It's her boss — the woman who hired her — that she suspects of money laundering. It would be suspicious if she _wasn't_."

"A wounded gazelle gambit if I ever saw one."

"She was on the verge of tears."

"Being a criminal is something worth crying about."

"Excuse me?"

Blake inspects the record of her testimony. He turns a page. "I said, 'Being a criminal is —'"

"No, I heard you," Y snaps. "And what the hell, Blake? How can you just claim something like that without evidence? The background check hasn't even been completed yet. All you know about Ms. Danfeld is what she told you this afternoon!"

"That's enough for me," Blake insists.

"It _shouldn't_ be, and you _know_ that. What is this about?"

"I don't know what you're thinking," Blake drawls out with a sharp sigh that he hopes makes painfully clear that the entire conversation is a meandering waste of his time. "It's about putting criminals behind bars, same as always."

"It's not the same as always, because the entire day you've been a grade-A jackass."

"Thank you for handling your workplace disputes in a professional manner."

"That ship set sail when you slammed a fist an inch away from Ms. Danfeld's hand."

"Like I said, you don't have to like —"

"Well, I _don't_ like it. And I'm telling you that, because adults handle problems by talking about them."

Blake raises his eyebrows fractionally. "And here I thought handling personnel problems was what H.R. was for."

"I might end up doing both."

Blake shrugs. "Knock yourself out. In the meantime, I'll be doing productive things with my time."

"Look, I don't care what —"

"Are you going anywhere with this, or do you just want to gibber?" Blake cuts in impatiently, since apparently Y hasn't yet gotten the message. "I have important work to do. You apparently don't, since you're sitting here in my office and criticizing me for doing my job. Which, from the looks of things, you've put more effort into than your work. Do you need something, or don't you?"

"Blake —"

"Is it case-related?"

"I'm trying to —"

"Is it case-related."

Y snaps her mouth shut. She glares at Blake over his desk. He turns back to his work.

"Fine, I'm leaving," she announces. Out of the corner of his eye, Blake can see her picking herself up out of the chair and returning her purse to her arm in a single, snapping motion. "I'll just say this: After that Water Thief operation went FUBAR, you're not Interpol's star officer anymore. I don't know if you still haven't gotten over that botched sting, or if you just got dumped, or whatever. But you better figure out whatever it is that's chafing your ass and fix it, or you're going to wind up getting yourself fired."

Blake doesn't bother turning his head. "Are you done?"

"I am," Y answers, voice clipped, and she marches over to Blake's office door. "Want the lights off?"

"Please and thank you."

Y obediently flicks the light switch. Blake's office descends again into bleak twilight. Blake stares at the glow of his computer monitor.

"Have a good night, then," Y bites out, and doesn't hesitate before she turns away from him and disappears down the hallway — not that Blake notices at all. He's too busy glaring at his computer, immersing himself in the case and growing increasingly frustrated when the facts don't line up with his reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep fighting the good fight, Y.


	14. Stealing Away

Blue stops pouring the whiskey when the glass is half-full. She retrieves the glass and twirls it in her hand. The pair of ice cubes crackle as the whiskey washes over them, and they clink against the side of the glass like windchimes. When the ice has started melting away around the edges, Blue takes a tentative sip. She narrowly avoids coughing it back up. The whiskey is strong, and it stings her throat like nettle. Blue briefly wonders why people enjoy alcohol that is physically painful to consume: this Talonflame whiskey is scorching, Silver's tequila collection is actually a collection of bottled flame, and Blake's taste in vodka is —

Blue takes another drink, despite the way the whiskey sets the back of her throat on fire. Quite frankly, it seems like the better of the two options in front of her right now. Especially seeing as the other option is remembering Blake's taste in vodka.

It's something she'd rather forget. Although even Blue would admit that it doesn't even near the top of the list. She could fill an entire book. Indeed, she _had_ — and promptly tossed it into a fire pit. She watched the pages brown and curl, turn into the gray haze of smoke, and float away, far away, beyond the reach of Blue or the city or the crackling tendrils of flame trapped in their round hole like spirits trapped in the underworld, eternally unable to escape.

But forgetting is hard to do, and it's even harder when the only things Blue finds herself remembering are the things she wants to forget. She's tried to keep herself busy to stave off the memories, and that, at least, hasn't been difficult. Escaping from the hotel was a miracle in itself. She hasn't dared return to her apartment since the raid, instead darting from dingy motel to dusty campground like a rodent escaping from burrow to burrow. Silver would have given her shelter, of course, without asking a single question, but the last thing Blue feels like doing right now is further entangling him in this knot she's weaved for herself. He deserves more than all Blue can give him.

From somewhere down the hall, there's the sound of a door slamming against a wall, and Blue feels her ears strain for its location. There are footsteps and some muffled grumblings of words she can't make out. Blue inhales a shaky breath and forces herself to remain seated. All her instincts are telling her to flee. All her experience is telling her to flee. The events at the hotel are telling her to leap back through the window she came in on and run and never look back. She doesn't move.

"I can't believe… What an asshat!" a voice grumbles, and down the hallway, a dull light suddenly flicks on. Blue can hear the clicking of heels against tile drawing nearer. "He thinks he's got everything figured out, but he hasn't even got himself figured out!"

Blue watches a silhouette emerge from the hallway and peel off a pair of heels, then step over to the wall. Blue reclines in the chair, then thinks that is perhaps too casual, and straightens herself and rests her hands around the glass of whiskey atop the desk. The light in the room turns on. Blue waits for the woman to turn around.

"If only he'd listen to me for once in his damn life," the woman complains aloud with a shake of her head. "But he won't, because — _shit_!"

Blue waves politely. "Hello, Yvonne. Lovely night, isn't it?"

Y pulls out a gun.

Blue holds her hands up. "Wait, wait! I don't want any trouble!"

"Then maybe you shouldn't have broken into my home," Y immediately shoots back.

"There wasn't a key underneath the mat!" Blue protests. "What was I supposed to do? Just wait outside?"

"There is such a thing as a doorbell," Y responds, regarding Blue with a gaze that is mostly threatening, only slightly surprised, and all business. "Although breaking and entering fits the profile of The Water Thief perfectly."

Blue perks up. "You've heard of me? Oh, good. We can skip the introductions, then."

Y grimaces. "If you'd really done your research on introductions, you'd know I prefer to be called Y."

"And I prefer Blue — at least, on social visits."

"I don't think you're in much of a position to decide what kind of visit this is," Y says, gesturing with the gun.

"And I even brought you a bottle of Talonflame whiskey as a housewarming gift."

"You're trying to bribe me? One bottle isn't enough to convince me to put up with this crap."

"I brought five."

Y takes a step closer, inspecting the desk and the arrangement of bottles sitting atop it, alongside Blue's glass, still half-full. By now, the ice has almost entirely melted. Y keeps the gun pointed at Blue. Blue keeps her hands raised.

"I'll give you five minutes. What do you want," Y finally demands. She maintains the position of her weapon, though Blue notes with some relief that her finger isn't on the trigger.

"Maybe you can put the gun down?"

"Four minutes, fifty seconds."

Blue sighs. "Okay, okay. I just want to talk."

"We're doing that right now."

"I want to talk about Blake," Blue says, fighting to keep her hands up and not reach down and smooth out her skirt. She watches as Y hesitates for a moment, eyes widening and instantly narrowing again.

"Well, in case you haven't noticed, I'm not Blake," she finally says. "Why don't you go break into his apartment?"

Blue winces. "We're… not on speaking terms."

"But apparently, you are with me. Even though we've never met before."

"Yes, that's right," Blue chirps. "I'm glad you understand."

Y considers her warily. "Then how do you know Blake?"

"I never said —"

"You said we're on speaking terms. But we've never met. So if you and Blake _aren't_ on speaking terms, what does that make you?" Y says brusquely. "I'll ask again: How do you know Blake?"

Blue swallows. "It doesn't make us anything."

"Two and a half minutes left."

Blue deflates. She looks to her side, then down at her glass. "We were… involved."

The silence is heavier than a mountain.

"I need a drink," Y finally declares, and drops herself into the chair opposite Blue. Blue obligingly hands her an unopened bottle, and Y pours a generous portion of whiskey into a glass for herself. She takes a long drink, then sets the glass back down, then opens her mouth, then closes it, then opens it again and raises her glass and takes another long drink.

Eventually, she barks out a laugh. "Involved? Hah." She shakes her head, and takes another drink of whiskey. The glass is already almost empty. "So this is what the booze is for."

"I thought it might help, a little," Blue tells her.

"And that's how you knew to bring me whiskey."

"Yes."

"Well, then. I'm glad that one good thing will come out of all this."

"What's that?"

"Five free bottles of Talonflame whiskey," Y answers, and finishes off the last of her drink. She immediately pours herself another glass. "So, you're here to, what — ask me to fix your relationship for you?"

Blue frowns. "Who said anything about needing fixing?"

Y glares at her. "Don't waste my time, or yours. I was at the sting. If you two were together before then, you definitely aren't now." She scoffs derisively and shakes her head. "You know, I couldn't figure out why Blake was being even more insufferable than usual — whether it was because the raid got screwed up, or because he was the one doing the screwing. I should've known it was both."

Blue feels herself perk up. "He's been upset?"

"How he's been doing is none of your business," Y coolly informs her.

"Excuse me, but I think it is."

Y raises her eyebrows. "Oh, good. Then go ask him."

Blue flinches. "What? I can't do that."

Y shrugs. "Sure you can. But instead, you're sitting across from me, asking me to fix your relationship for you."

Blue frowns. "I never said that," she hedges.

"Then why are you here?" Y demands, setting her glass down with a heavy thunk. "As much as I enjoy the pleasure of your company, I have a job in the morning, a friend's play I've promised to attend tomorrow evening, and after tonight, I have to buy a new window to replace whatever one you broke coming in here."

"I didn't break anything," Blue weakly protests.

"Maybe you enjoy breaking into people's houses and roping them into being your couples' therapist. But I'm not anybody's couples' therapist. I'm running out of patience, and I'm running out of whiskey. So tell me what it is you want, already."

"I don't know, okay?" Blue snaps. "I came here because I'm at the end of my rope. Maybe it was foolish of me to think I'd find someone who'd actually want to help a thief. Maybe it was stupid to think that someone who knew him could tell me why Blake betrayed me!"

"Betrayed you?" Y repeats, amused. "I can't believe this. You're the cleverest thief in a generation, and you can't figure out why an Interpol officer would turn in a thief?"

"We promised. We told each other that while we were together, what we did to make a buck didn't matter. We could —"

"You could make it work, and everyone would live happily ever after, the end." Y rolls her eyes. "Spare me."

"Don't mock me. I knew it was going to be difficult."

"Why are you a thief?" Y abruptly demands.

"Huh?" Blue stammers.

"Why do you steal?" Y repeats, impatient. "You're smart. Quick on your feet. Objectively good-looking. You could make a living doing anything you want. You choose to steal. Why?"

Blue coils herself up like a snake. "You wouldn't understand. Some people don't want to be chained to a desk seven days a week, every week of the year. Ever since I was a girl, starving on the streets, I told myself I'd live my life my way. And I do. It's something you could only dream of."

The words bounce off Y like a rubber ball. "Right, good, congrats on living the dream. What about Blake?"

"What about him?"

"Why does he work for Interpol?"

Blue stares at her. "What? How should I know that?"

Y stares back. "You two were in a relationship. I'm just spitballing, here, but maybe that's something you should've talked about?"

"Yes, because Interpol and a thief getting together is just oh-so-common," Blue bristles. "And in case you hadn't noticed, Blake isn't exactly open about his personal life. You've seen his office, I'm sure. It's straight from the catalog."

"First, mental note for Interpol to beef up security," Y observes disinterestedly. "And second: Exactly my point. What does Blake's office tell you about who he is?"

"Nothing, because there's nothing there besides stuff for work, work and more work."

"Bingo," Y says, raising her glass in a mock toast.

"Bingo?" Blue parrots. "What does that mean?"

"It means that Blake is all about finding criminals and putting them behind bars. That's who he is," Y explains, as though that fact is entirely self-evident and only a fool couldn't see, and Blue feels herself involuntarily tense up in anger at the implication. "It's what he does for fun. It's what he gets up every morning to do. It's what he dreams about at night."

"So what?"

" _So_ ," Y continues pointedly, "Blake chose his life at Interpol because that's what he wanted to do. Justice, fairness, rule of law — he believes in it, and it's important to him. All that tripe you spouted about freedom and independence and whatever else — he doesn't care about any of that. At the very least, it's not as important to him as it is to you."

"My life isn't tripe," Blue shoots back.

"Neither is his," Y calmly replies. "Maybe if you talked about it, both of you would have realized that. And then he wouldn't have had to choose."

"Choose? What are you blathering about now?"

Y rests her chin in one hand and stirs her whiskey with the other. "Between Interpol's ace officer and a globetrotting thief, it was bound to happen sooner or later. Somehow, he got put in a place where he had to pick: you, or what he believed in. And he made his choice."

"What a bunch of bull." Blue slams her hands down on the desk. What remains of her whiskey splashes out of the glass. "He didn't have to choose anything. He backstabbed me all on his own."

Y shrugs. "Maybe. But you could have just as easily done the same to him."

Blue glares at her. "I would _never_ have sold him out like he did to me."

Y seems surprised by the fire in Blue's words. She lifts her head to examine Blue quizzically. "You can honestly say you'd never do it?" Y wonders aloud.

"Never," Blue insists.

"Not even, oh, I don't know. Giving him a forged Lustrous Orb?"

Blue's world crumbles.

"Why, Blake would've been downright humiliated — in front of his boss, his co-workers, his client — if he had shown them something like that, thinking it was real," Y says, leaning back in her chair with a self-assured smile on her face, and Blue would be experiencing the desire to launch a fist at Y's smug grin if she wasn't too busy watching the ground fall away underneath her feet. "But that would never happen. You'd never betray him, right?"

"That was — it was for him!" Blue scrambles, grasping at threads and watching them disappear into smoke. "He was supposed to keep it safe, not give it away!"

"That seems fair," Y nods. "You made sure to explain that to him, right?"

"No, but only because I needed to make sure I could trust him! We'd only just met — I had to know that he wouldn't be informing on me!"

"And I'm sure that Blake was very reassured by that deep display of trust."

"How should I have known that's what he would do with it?"

"By talking to him? Oh, but that's right. Neither of you talked about work. Oops."

Blue feels a flare of self-righteous anger. "It's easy for you to talk. You weren't there. You're not the one stuck where I am. And you have the nerve to act like you can't be bothered to care?"

"I've been reliably informed of that, yes," Y notes blithely.

Blue taps her fingers against the desk, uncertainly, unsteadily, unsure of everything and more. "Then help me. You understand what happened — you have to tell Blake what went wrong, talk to him about —"

"I will do no such thing," Y interrupts her like a gunshot, no longer almost lazily indifferent. She deposits her glass on the desk with the same sudden burst of intensity that she bites out her words, and Blue is temporarily left speechless.

"You went and played with a matchbook, and now that you set your house on fire, you're asking me to put it out for you? I'll give you points for audacity, but that's all."

"Well, excuse me, but —"

"No. You don't get to interrupt, not when you barged in here asking why this blew up in your face, and now I'm telling you. Blake's just as much to blame, but everything you two have done up to this point has been phenomenally stupid, for everyone involved. Let's start with you. You're the most skilled thief Interpol has ever come across, and it's a public relations nightmare for all the higher-ups involved. Whoever manages to catch you would be instantly promoted. So what did you do? You threw caution to the wind and put your freedom in the hands of an Interpol officer. Then, after that officer nearly nabbed you in a sting, you put your freedom in the hands of that Interpol officer's partner."

"I knew what I was doing. And I haven't been caught."

"Yet," Y shoots back. She takes a sip from her glass with narrowed eyes. "And then there's Blake. I don't know if you're aware, but his position is currently under review. Which means there's a fifty-fifty chance he's fired by the end of the month."

The revelation catches Blue off-guard. She doesn't know what to do with this information.

Y examines her disdainfully. "Judging from your expression, I'm guessing you didn't. Well, he is. Interpol wasn't thrilled with him bungling their best shot at capturing The Water Thief in years. Now he's in hot water with the superintendent, and I could name more than a few disgruntled employees who'd be pleased as punch to see Interpol's rising star get snuffed out. If the review board ever found out that he'd been making out with The Water Thief all this time? Well. Some coffins only need one nail."

Blue bites her lip. "…I didn't think of that."

"Clearly not," Y huffs with a shake of her head. "And now you can add me to the list."

"You?" Blue parrots.

"You've put me in an impossible situation. I can't just say I never saw you."

"You're going to turn me in?"

"I would if I could. But I do have to file a report, and like hell I'm putting my career on the line for you."

"Blake did," Blue weakly points out.

"Yeah, unlike Blake, I'm not banging you, so that's the end of that," Y retorts. "I'd much rather just tell the truth and be done with it. But if I did that, Blake is dead in the water. I can't do that to him — not after everything he's done for me. Maybe I can't save him. But I sure as hell won't be the one to shoot him. So I'm going to have to lie, anyway. And if that's ever found out, then it's me out on the street in a hot minute." She glares at Blue over the rim of her glass. "And these are only the people I know about. Whoever else is involved in your misbegotten tryst are probably going to end up in hot water, too. So if you ask me, this whole misguided misadventure needs to stop right now. For the good of everybody involved."

"But it's not good for everybody," Blue says, casting about for something, anything to cling to. "It's not good for me. It's not good for Blake."

"How can you decide what's good for him? He's an adult. He's plenty capable of making decisions for himself. And I'd say he decided to break things off. I have to hand it to him, honestly. I can't think of a more dramatic way to stage a breakup. I didn't think he was capable of that kind of virtuoso performance," Y says, over her glass, watching Blue. "Maybe he learned something about flair from The Water Thief, after all."

Blue feels something that she once would have called pride. It's quickly overtaken by an uncomfortable swirl deep inside her, a chill that penetrates her very core and solidifies into something hard and cold and eternal. She regrets drinking all that whiskey on an empty stomach.

Y finishes the last of her whiskey. She sets down her glass. She does not reach for the bottle again. "Look," she says with a sigh, heavy and whispering like winter. "I don't envy you. Not one bit. But the world is what it is. Ignoring reality doesn't change it. It only kills you."

Blue traces spiraling circles onto the desk with her finger, winding round and round, endlessly, with no beginning or end. "Maybe I knew all along. That this was going to happen. But I hoped. I was happy. I thought Blake was happy. I thought we could keep being happy. Why is that too much to ask? Why couldn't it have lasted just a moment longer? Why couldn't it have lasted forever?"

"Because nothing lasts forever," Y says sadly, staring down into her empty glass. A curtain falls over her eyes. "And happiness least of all."

After a long moment, Y shakes her head. "Anyway, I can't in good conscience act as your go-between. As far as Blake is concerned, you were never here. And as far as Interpol more broadly is concerned, The Water Thief broke in…" Y glances down at her watch. "Thirty minutes from now."

"You're giving me an out?"

"I'm giving you a courtesy. One that won't happen again."

"But — I still don't know what I'm going to do," Blue protests.

Y sighs, suddenly seeming twenty years older. "That's not something I can help you with. I've told you what I think. Whatever you end up doing — you have to figure that out yourself. I can't do it for you."

Blue nods absently, consumed by her thoughts. She stands up without noticing and makes her way across the room to the hallway without thinking. Outside, the night is clear and dark. The moon is a barely visible sickle.

"Was he really upset? About the Lustrous Orb?" she asks from the doorway.

Y smiles wanly. "I heard swears I hadn't heard since he lost a mob boss in Orre."

Blue looks away. "I see," she eventually says. "Goodbye, then."

Y does not respond, not even with a nod or shake of the head, and when Blue takes one last look back before escaping through the same window she came in through, Y is still there, hunched over at her desk, alone with an empty glass and five bottles of Talonflame whiskey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who were wondering, in this fic Blue drinks cosmos. The more you know!


	15. Stealing Thunder

It is 2:13 a.m. on Wednesday, and Blake is at a 24-hour convenience store searching for a package of instant ramen, extra spicy. For a certain definition of searching, anyway — one that includes staring at a shelf full of pancake mix for the past fifteen minutes.

"Why, if it isn't Mr. Blake! I did not imagine I would see you in a place such as this!"

Blake turns to see none other than Platinum Berlitz herself flouncing up to him with a skip in her step and a peppy smile on her face that are objectively unwarranted at 2:13 in the morning. She gazes up at him with sparkling eyes, as though expecting an answer from him.

Blake coughs. "I didn't imagine it, either," he finally settles on.

"Platinum, this is a convenience store, not an amusement park," someone huffs from around the corner. Blake glances around for the newcomer, and it takes Blake's brain a few moments to recognize him as Ruby, from Lilycove City.

"Or that," Blake grumbles.

"I understand you're eager, but consider —" Ruby spies Blake. He stops short. "Oh. Hello," he says. He edges just the slightest bit closer to Platinum.

"Ah, pardon my lack of manners!" Platinum declares. "Mr. Blake, this is Ruby, my childhood friend. Ruby, this is Mr. Blake. He is an officer working with Interpol to retrieve the Berlitz family's Lustrous Orb."

"We've met," Ruby notes curtly.

"Truly?"

"Indeed. Blake was the agent assigned to prevent the theft of the Lilycove relief."

"Oh? But wasn't the relief successfully stolen?" Platinum wonders aloud.

"Also correct," Ruby confirms, peering watchfully at Blake over the tops of his glasses. "How goes the case, inspector?"

Blake bites back a grimace. "It's going."

Ruby raises an eyebrow, but Platinum cuts in before he can say anything. "Have patience, Ruby. I am certain the staff at Interpol are working diligently every day so they may procure what was stolen."

Ruby hums thoughtfully. "Of course. Every day, I am more eager to see the relief be discovered."

Blake glares hard at the boxes of pancake mix.

"But what a happy coincidence for us to have met like this," Platinum chimes in. "By what accident of fate do we find ourselves in each other's company, Mr. Blake?"

"I could ask you the same question."

Platinum frowns, puzzled. "What an odd request. You seek to address me as Mr. Blake as well?"

Ruby shakes his head and puts a hand on Platinum's shoulder. "Platinum and I both happened to be in Castelia City at the same time, and so we decided to meet," Ruby answers for her. "I return to Lilycove later this morning, and needed to pick up a few items before my departure. Platinum insisted on accompanying me."

"But of course! I cannot pass up the opportunity to experience the fabled 24-hour convenience store for myself."

"A fabled… convenience store. Right," Blake mutters to himself.

"In any event, we haven't seen each other in over a year, so I had no objections," Ruby continues. He smiles knowingly. "Of course, if you had joined the contest circuit like I suggested, these occasional meetings could occur more frequently."

"Oh, no," Platinum demurs. "The life of a coordinator is not for me."

"You have a rare talent. Your Rapidash's Flare Blitz was a majestic sight," Ruby says, swooning. He throws one arm across Platinum's shoulders, and thrusts the other one out, as if gesturing to a vision of a Flare Blitz that only he can see. "The arrangement of the flames, the flickering light, the shimmering power concealed behind the bright glow of fire — why, there was not a dry eye in the audience!"

"You overpraise me. I am quite content as I am, merely playing a small role in the advancement of humankind."

"A truly missed opportunity," Ruby chides her.

"But what of you, Mr. Blake? What brings you here at this early hour?" Platinum asks.

Blake rattles his shopping basket irritably. "I was looking for ramen."

Platinum gazes at the shelf in front of them. She looks to the left. She looks to the right. She tilts her head. "…In the bakery section?"

Blake glares harder at the boxes of pancake mix. They do not transform into ramen.

"…I changed my mind," he grunts, and turns down the aisle to leave.

Two pairs of footsteps skitter after him. Blake mentally counts to ten.

"We were about to leave, as well," Ruby's voice comes from behind him. "We would have already checked out, if Platinum hadn't dashed off to converse."

"That's too bad."

"It really is, isn't it?" Platinum's voice chimes in. "There is never enough time to spend with friends."

Blake grumbles wordlessly. He makes a beeline for the only open register. He wishes there were two.

"But I expect we shall see each other again before long," Platinum continues cheerfully. "After all, I am certain you are making remarkable progress on identifying the —"

Blake sets his basket down on the counter with more force than he intended.

"Will that be all?" the clerk asks.

"Yes," Blake bites out. He spares a moment to send the redheaded clerk a glare that Blake hopes makes abundantly clear that speed is of the essence, before turning back to Platinum and Ruby, the former of whom is —

Blake stops. He blinks. He turns back to the counter. He glares at the redheaded clerk again. "You," he snarls.

"Hello," Silver answers, with the same monotonous nonchalance as always, and Blake is going to need to count to fifty.

"What are you doing here?" Blake demands.

Silver raises an eyebrow. "My job."

"How many jobs do you even have."

Silver shrugs. "I lose track."

"Oh, do you know this fellow as well, Mr. Blake?" Platinum asks innocently. She looks from Blake to Silver with a smile.

Blake is too busy glaring holes into Silver's head. Silver looks unaffected. "We are… acquainted," he finally decides on.

"Why, what a stroke of luck this is!"

"It's  _ some _ kind of luck," Blake mutters under his breath.

"My name is Platinum, and this is my childhood friend, Ruby. Any friend of Mr. Blake is certainly a friend of ours," Platinum says, holding out her hand for Silver to shake; behind her, Ruby gives a slight wave, even as he peers over the rims of his glasses curiously.

Silver, for his part, looks down at Platinum's hand as though it is holding a rubber chicken. "Silver," he finally mumbles in response, and busies himself by rifling through Blake's shopping basket. Blake resists the urge to swat Silver's hands away from his things.

"Platinum," Blake suddenly announces. He doesn't remove his gaze from Silver's face. "Can you and Ruby do me a favor?"

"But of course. What is it?" Platinum answers. Next to her, Ruby says nothing, only looking from Silver to Blake with thinly veiled suspicion.

"Can you get me a package of instant ramen? Extra spicy, please."

"I must beg your pardon, but I was under the impression that you decided you no longer wanted to purchase such an item?"

"…I changed my mind. Again," Blake grunts.

Platinum stares at him quizzically. She breaks into a wide smile. "Oh, how capricious you are, Mr. Blake! Do not worry, as we all have our faults."

"Platinum," Ruby says warningly.

"Come, Ruby! I simply must see this instant ramen for myself."

Ruby takes one last, lingering look at Silver and Blake. "I'm coming," he finally says, and disappears after her.

As soon as he hears their footsteps fade, Blake opens his mouth. "What do you want," he demands.

"To serve our customers with a smile."

"Don't play the funny man. I know Blue sent you."

"She did? News to me."

"Just answer the question," Blake growls.

"Blue doesn't send me anywhere," Silver answers. "And even if she did, I haven't seen her in two weeks."

"Don't lie to me. I know she's out there."

"I'm not lying. Or maybe I am. You wouldn't believe me, anyway."

"With good reason." Blake evaluates him skeptically. "You're the heir to the Rocket Syndicate."

Silver mimes a golf clap. "Oh, good. You did your research."

"Given who your father is, I'm sure lying comes naturally."

"The sins of the father are not the sins of the son."

"That doesn't make you sinless."

"You're right. I sin with the best of them."

Blake growls. "If you don't tell me where Blue is right now, I swear I'll make your life such a hellscape that you'll be begging me to put you in prison for the rest of your damn life."

Silver shakes his head. "You don't get it, do you?"

"I get it just fine, thank you."

"Okay. Then please tell Superintendent Larousse that I said hello. And congratulate her on her new baby. He's her third, right?"

"W-what?" Blake stammers.

"Oh? You didn't know?" Silver asks, face the very picture of nonchalance. "We're old friends."

"You? And the Superintendent? Bullshit. She was the one in charge of prosecuting your father."

Silver raises an eyebrow. "Who do you think gave her the information that sent him to prison?"

Blake narrows his eyes. "You're bluffing."

"If you think so, then come after me. I'm sure Superintendent Larousse will be happy to hear that you're trying to put her informant away."

Blake stifles a frustrated growl. He clenches his fists at his sides, only watching as Silver plucks a bag of pretzels from the basket and runs it over the scanner.

"Now that's cleared up, I have a question for you," Silver says, and answers Blake's death glare with one of his own. "What did you do to Blue?"

"What does it matter?" Blake retorts.

"It matters a lot. At least for you."

"Really? Because I feel just fine."

"Good to hear it. Now tell me what you did to her."

"Nothing out of the ordinary." Blake smirks. "For a thief, anyway."

The words have only just left Blake's mouth when Silver lashes out an arm and grabs Blake by the collar of his shirt. Blake is yanked against the counter; his legs crash into it, and Blake feels the scar just above his left knee throb. Silver leans over the counter, so close that all Blake can see is Silver's set jaw and thin lips and eyes like a furnace. Blake feels himself swallow, and a portion of his brain registers that breathing hurts.

"Then I hope you enjoy feeling fine while it lasts. Because if you hurt her, you won't be feeling fine. I'll make sure of that," Silver whispers, voice so quiet that Blake can only hear it in his blood. The whirring of the air conditioner fades into Blake's pulse. "I will eviscerate you more painfully than you thought possible. I will gut you, one organ, one bone at a time, so that you can feel exactly how much you hurt her."

Blake hacks out a cough. He grins a lopsided grin. "Aren't you just the protective brother," he sneers.

"Turns out, when you send your father to prison, you have to make new family," Silver says. He twists his grip. Blake haltingly gulps down another breath. "I don't know exactly what happened. But I know Blue. And I know that she wouldn't disappear off the face of the earth without telling me, not if she had a choice."

"If you're so worried for her sake, why don't you go after her?"

"If Blue doesn't want to be found, she won't be found. Simple as that. For your sake, I hope that's all this is."

"For being a criminal? For breaking the law? For stealing people's lives from them?" Blake spits. "She deserves worse."

"Blue deserves the world," Silver shoots back. Blake's knee smacks into the counter again. Blake stops putting weight on it. "Blue may be a thief. But even when she was homeless and starving, she always helped those who needed it more than she did. She stole bread so the six-year-old down the street didn't starve. She stole jewels so a father could pay for his medicine instead of orphaning his kids. When I ran away from whatever poor excuse for a home I had — because that's what happens in this sorry world when you do the right thing — she stole so that I had clothes to wear and food to eat and a roof over my head.

"You, on the other hand, are a spineless husk of a man. So shallow that when you see a shiny fleck of lint and a real gem, you decide the lint is more important. So cowardly that when your worldview is challenged, you run away. So insecure that you have to throw yourself into your work for a meager measure of confidence, and when someone shows you another path forward, you lock them away and convince yourself you're doing it for the greater good. Blue deserves so much more than you could ever give her," Silver states, voice as dull as ever, but only so that impaling Blake on the blade is all the more painful. "And you?" He tightens his grip. "You don't even deserve my pity."

Silver finally removes his hand from Blake's neck, and Blake totters against the counter like a rag doll. His left leg wobbles at the sudden need to support more weight. Blake says nothing, choosing to catch his breath, and does not break the unmoving mask fixed onto his face except to pull up his sleeve and wipe a fleck of Silver's spit from his cheek.

"How strange. Are noodles of such firmness edible? This cannot truly be intended for human consumption, can it?"

"Only a caveman would think of eating it raw. You soak the noodles in hot water first. Then you eat them."

Blake glances behind him. Platinum is making her way down the aisle with a post-apocalyptic supply of instant ramen in her hands. Next to her, Ruby is glancing at the mountain with increasingly evident nervousness.

"Oh, I see," Platinum nods approvingly, and the motion causes the pile of ramen to sway. Ruby holds a hand out to catch a package that looks just about to tumble off; it sways back at the last moment. The pile remains intact. Ruby breathes a relieved sigh. "But they are so tightly packed. How does one remove the noodles from the cup so that one may cook it?"

"It is for convenience," Ruby informs her, eyes carefully following the mass of noodles. "You put the hot water in the cup. Then, when it is finished, you eat them directly."

"How charming! Why, there would be no need for a pot, or even a plate! Perhaps I shall purchase some for myself," Platinum announces. She deposits the noodles onto the counter; the pile instantly topples over, hiding Blake's shopping basket underneath. "Mr. Blake, you have such intriguing taste in food!"

"You could certainly call it that," Ruby snarks.

"Will you be purchasing each of these today, sir?" Silver asks, as though Blake was any other customer and Silver was any other cashier; as though the question is a binary choice, not one with thousands of other questions branching off like an overgrown maze of vines, so tangled and dense that light does not dare pass through to where Blake is curled up against the dirt, unsure of whether he wishes for the light, or whether he is hiding from it.

Blake turns away. "No. Never mind," he says, and walks toward the door, trying not to put too much weight on his leg and limping anyway. The sliding doors open and permit him passage. Blake steps outside, into the air that's too chilly without a coat. He takes a deep breath, then crosses the street and walks into the night. The doors slide shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry about the ramen; Platinum bought the entire pile.


	16. Stealing the Stolen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *wakes up* *checks phone* *does double-take*  
> ...How long was I asleep???

"It really completes the entrance hall, don't you think?"

Blue stands alone, gazing at the stone statue. She doesn't answer. She would have, once. 

"A contest, first and foremost, is a display of the trust people and Pokémon share." Out of the corner of her eye, Blue sees a man emerge from the darkness pooling around the edges of the hall. He steps into the dim light falling through the glass ceiling until he is only a few paces away from Blue, close enough to whisper a truth, and far enough for Blue to pretend she hadn't heard it. "It is only appropriate that there be something to commemorate those bonds at the very place where we celebrate that trust."

Blue does not move. There is just enough gloom, even through the thick veil of clouds hiding the moon, for Blue to identify him as the man who had accompanied Blake and Y when she last visited Lilycove City a lifetime ago.

"You're not supposed to be here," Blue finally says, without looking at him.

"Nor are you," Ruby answers, without looking at her. "A few small changes — my flight not arriving early, perhaps, or the clouds being thick enough to rain — and neither of us would have arrived at this place at this moment in time." He pauses, thoughtfully. "And yet, here we are. Fate is ever the enigma, it seems."

Blue bites her lip. "That's putting it kindly."

Ruby hums. "Indeed. I cannot say there is nothing in my past that I wish would have happened differently, if given the choice."

Ruby does not elaborate further. The pair of them fall into silence. 

"Then again, there are people who will never see the gentle allure of a cherry blossom in spring, or who will never feel the exhilaration of summiting Mt. Silver, or even those who will never know the tender warmth of a mother's embrace. Life is made up of chance encounters: events that never would have happened, people we never would have met. That any of us has experienced those at all — is that not a happy trick of fate in itself?"

Ruby's words hang in the air above them. Blue stares down at the carpet.

"Aren't you going to ask me?" she finally says.

Ruby cocks his head. "Ask what?"

"About the statue."

Ruby pauses. "And what, about the relief, would I ask?"

Blue shrugs. "Why I stole it. Why I brought it back."

"Of course your motives remain a mystery to me. If you wish to indulge my curiosity, by all means, feel free to explain yourself. However, seeing the relief safely returned has been, and still is, my chief concern. I will summon an appraiser first thing in the morning. Heavens know what manner of oils and debris have defaced its surface during its excursion to lord-knows-where."

"What will you do if I don't answer?"

Ruby raises an eyebrow. "Nothing but watch as you leave."

"This is farewell, then." Blue turns her back on the statue and the man standing in front of it, and walks into the shadow suffusing the rest of the hall.

"I would ask you only one thing, before you go," Ruby calls after her.

Blue shuffles to a stop.

"What do you think of Magikarp?"

Blue can't help but turn and laugh a self-deprecating laugh. "A Magikarp? I don't think much about it at all."

Ruby turns his head and looks fondly at the statue behind him. "Most people do not. They do not even notice that it is a part of this relief, here."

Blue follows his gaze, even though she doesn't need to. She has examined it many times before, appreciating how the craftsmanship makes the Gyarados seem ready to bellow a roar; the way the Pichu's eyes seem wide with wonder at the vast world around it. But in the moonless light, shadows seem to crawl over everything. The Gyarados looks lifeless; the Pichu, disinterested and dull. There is a Chandelure, and a Ninjask, and a Froslass, and whatever charm Blue once found in each of them has disappeared, like a stone disappearing underneath the ocean waves, leaving not even a ripple behind.

Blue shakes her head. "It's not. There is no Magikarp."

Ruby smiles knowingly. "Ah, but there is. For what do you think the Gyarados once was?" He takes a step toward the carving of the Gyarados, looking intently into its gaping maw. Blue feels her own gaze pulled toward it. "Magikarp are thought of as the most worthless of Pokémon. Unable to do battle, unappealing to the eye, and useful only as food for other Pokémon. And yet, in the face of such adversity, the Magikarp does not tire. It continues to survive; thrive, even. And after much hard work and persistence, it may even become a Gyarados — one of the mightiest Pokémon of all. To persevere over such a great many ordeals: that is true toughness."

Ruby shakes his head. "To be honest, your actions baffle me. I am not sure why you are here, or what you are seeking. There is only one thing I can say with certainty: the Magikarp that flees from adversity will never become a Gyarados." Ruby turns to face her, and his eyes seem to pierce the darkness Blue had tried to disappear into. "Whatever the burden you are carrying is, I do not believe that running away will help you lift it."

Blue can't help but bite out a hollow, desperate laugh, one that rattles around in her chest like a pebble in an empty can. She turns away from Ruby and the statue behind him.

"I'm a criminal," she says, and smiles ruefully down at the ground. "Running away is what I do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why, yes, the relief _does_ complete the entrance hall. Thanks for asking!


	17. Stealing the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *taps mic nervously* ...This thing still on?
> 
> Anyway, I did what I swore I wouldn't do when I started this project and that was put this on hiatus. Oops. Well, I have almost everything just about wrapped up now, so I don't foresee any other delays. Unless a meteor hits the Earth and kills off all life as we know it. Then there would be a delay.

"Okay, this is getting ridiculous."

Blake jolts awake in his chair at the sound of Y's voice. He jolts again when Y stomps into his office and slams the door shut behind her.

"Wuh —"

"I was hoping you'd snap yourself out of whatever the hell this is," Y says, marching up to Blake and the desk he had been resting his head on, just for a minute. Blake rubs at his eyes. "But apparently that was wishful thinking, because here you are, drooling over your case files."

Blake frowns. He looks down at the papers atop his desk, scattered everywhere as if dropped there in the dark. There are bent corners and coffee-stained rings, but there are no wet spots indicative of drool.

"…I wasn't drooling," he argues.

Y plants her hands on his desk. She leans over it menacingly. "Then wipe it off your mouth," she growls.

Blake swallows. He obligingly rubs at a corner of his mouth with his thumb.

Y shakes her head. "This has gone on long enough. I know you think you're some sort of crime-stopping automaton, but you're a regular human just like everyone else. And that means you need to do regular human things like eating and sleeping."

Blake reshuffles himself into his chair. "I _am_ doing those," he tells her, taking the array of papers in his hands and attempting to reorganize them.

"You're working."

"I'm multitasking."

"You're making a nest."

"I'm not making a nest," Blake protests, offended.

Y gestures to a pile of empty instant ramen cups to his left.

"I was hungry."

Y gestures to a pile of empty styrofoam coffee cups to his right.

"Those were… to keep me focused."

Y points behind him. "And the sleeping bag?"

Blake hesitates. "Just in case?"

"Not anymore," Y says, and swipes Blake's carefully collected stack of case files straight from his hands. "You're running yourself ragged, and it has to stop, right now."

Blake leaps up from his chair. He tries to grab his papers back, but Y pulls them out of his reach. "No, I'm — there's nothing wrong — I'm telling you, I'm fine! I'm just trying — I need to get work done, and you're here, getting in the way of me getting stuff done, and being paranoid about things that don't matter, making mountains out of nothing!"

"It's clearly not nothing."

"Yes, it _is_ — there's nothing to notice and there's nothing wrong with me, so just —!" Blake says, grabbing at his paperwork again, only for Y to push his arm away and push him away, and Blake stumbles a step backward and looks back at her with wide eyes.

"We're _Interpol_ , Blake," Y hisses. "We get _paid_ to notice things. And if you think half the building hasn't come to the conclusion that you're an unwashed, unshaved, Zigzagoon-eye-ringed caffeine addict who's trying to drown himself in casework in order to forget about The Water Thief, then I never should have looked up to you in the first place."

She glares at him for a moment longer, then takes Blake's papers and places them inside a plastic folder from her bag. "As of today, you're on vacation. Two weeks. Enjoy yourself."

Blake gapes at her. "Wha— vacation? I can't, not now —"

"You can and you will."

"You can't — you're not my boss."

"You're right: I'm not your boss. But Superintendent Larousse is," Y announces, and plucks a sheet of paper from her bag and thrusts it in front of Blake's disbelieving eyes. "And she approved a two-week leave of absence, effective immediately."

"But — my cases —"

"Have already been temporarily transferred to me, until you return."

"She can't do that to you, not when —"

"I learned from you. I think I can manage for a while."

"But it's not —"

"Blake, do you want to get fired?" Y demands, voice crumpled like the piece of paper that is now crumpled between her fingers. Blake has never heard Y's voice crumple like paper before.

"Maybe you're the only one in this building who doesn't understand just how thin the ice you're standing on is. Let me make it clear: it's thin. So thin you can see through it. It's melting by the day, and you sleeping in your office and swatting away everyone as if they're insects is only making things worse. The review board is almost ready to wrap things up. And the way things are going, they're going to recommend that you be terminated on the spot."

"So? Let them."

Y marches up to him and looks him in the eyes. "Then tell me you want to be fired," Y says, Blake's leave-of-absence paperwork snapping into thinner and thinner lines. "Tell me right this moment, and I'll get out of your office and won't bother you about this ever again."

Blake can't meet her gaze.

"Maybe you don't care if you wake up tomorrow without a job. Maybe you don't care what happens to you. But I care. And until and unless you can tell me, to my face, that your life as an Interpol officer is over, I'm going to keep doing my damnedest to make sure that you still have that life to go back to."

Y stops to catch her breath. She says nothing, as if waiting for a response, but Blake can't find anything in himself to say. Eventually, Y steps away from him. She reaches into her bag and drops a strip of paper onto his desk.

"…Here's a plane ticket to Lumiose City. I've booked you a round-trip flight and a hotel for two weeks. Figure out what's important to you."

Blake stands behind his desk and stares at it long after Y has left and closed the door behind her.

Blake doesn't go. The flight leaves that evening, and there is too much that Blake knows must be done and too little that Blake imagines can be done. There is luggage to pack. There is mail to be redirected. There are arrangements to be made with his apartment. There is nowhere in Kalos he's ever thought about visiting. There is nothing in Kalos he's ever thought about doing. There is the consideration of weather, and there is the issue of transportation, and there is the problem of money. There is airport parking, and airport check-in, and airport security. There is Kalos, a place far away from Castelia City, a place Blake knows of and does not know about.

So Blake doesn't go, not until an hour before his flight is scheduled to depart, and only then because it had been delayed, and is still the last passenger to board. On the flight, he sits at the window and stares at the clouds, and thinks about how they look orange and infinite in the sunset, even from above instead of from below. On the taxi ride, he sits at the window and stares at the darkened street signs, and thinks about how they differ in shape and color from the ones he knows in Unova. In the hotel, he checks in at the lobby and heads up the stairs to his room and sits in the chair by the window and stares at the shadows of people in the buildings across from him, and wonders what the people of Kalos dream of, until he falls into sleep.

So Blake doesn't go, at least he hadn't planned to, and the feather-lightness of his suitcase is evidence enough of that. He has only the clothes on his back, and after a rainstorm drops atop him on the first day, not even those. Lumiose City is foreign to him, and its fashions are even more so, but they are his only option, and Blake finds himself wearing an odd pastiche of striped V-neck T-shirts and collared shirts better left untucked and grid-patterned pants that end just above the ankle. He wanders supermarkets and convenience stores searching for a motley collection of items that changes with the day and with his mood. He buys an umbrella and travels nowhere without it.

So Blake doesn't go, hadn't known where he was going, not really. And most days, he doesn't. Lumiose City is more of a maze than Castelia City could ever hope to be. Mornings and evenings pass while Blake simply travels past fountains and crosses streets and walks down roads that have seen feet from a millennium ago. Slowly, the fluttering awnings of storefronts and the dancing aprons of storekeepers become recognizable to him, and then familiar. More than once, he finds himself at the base of Prism Tower, and in the daytime finds it exceedingly dull, and in the nighttime finds it exceedingly bright. He makes the day trip out to the countryside to visit Parfum Palace, and Blake would have been better able to appreciate the history of the place, at the very least, if not for the oppressive opulence that reminds Blake too much of somewhere else's.

So Blake doesn't go, and he's not sure, in the end, why he does. Even while sitting alone in a coffee shop in a tall bar chair at a tall bar table, he searches his cappuccino for answers. It's the question that follows him through the streets of Lumioise City, whenever he sees a man with a long, scraggly beard and oversized clothes hunched over in a doorway. It pokes at the corners of his mind when he is waiting at the lobby of his hotel one morning, and glances at an article in the newspaper about a Pokémon statue discovered in Lilycove City. It nudges him when the afternoon rains come, and Blake holes up in a bistro or in a bookstore or in his room and curls up as close to the window as he can so he can watch the rain, and pretend, for as long as the rain will let him, that it is from another time.

It is ever-present, and yet not at all. It is a reminder of things that are better forgotten, and yet can never be forgotten. It makes Blake drift from street to street and shop to shop in search of something invisible. And yet it is somehow never more visible than the night Blake is skulking alone in a booth at the far corner of a bar, watching people and couples drinking and dancing and daring one another to close the space between them; it is never more visible than watching the people lined up at the bar, a pair of women laughing into their drinks, a man gazing into the crowd with a fond smile and a shake of the head; and it is never more visible than in a woman, seated far away from the others, at the very end of the bar, with a very nearly empty martini glass, with her back turned away from him, hair cascading across her shoulders, in a sleeveless black dress showing too much skin for February, a woman with a charming laugh and a quick wit and a beautiful smile she does not show as often as Blake hopes she would, a woman who is at once a a star and a shadow. Blake thinks about how easy it would be to leave and never look back. It would be the easiest thing he's ever done, he thinks, to not go and speak to her.

And Blake almost doesn't go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSA: Umbrellas are a vital travel accessory. There is no fate worse than travelling in wet squishy socks that do not ever dry.


	18. Stealing the Future

Blue does not recognize him.

There are, perhaps, several reasons for this. Blue does not linger as to why. Because, when the recognition finally visits her like a distant cousin, Blue's reaction is not to marvel at how straight-laced Blake has stumbled inside a seedy bar in a foreign city. Blue's reaction is not to wonder at Blake's haphazard medley of clothes, pasted on like a child's scrapbook.

Blue's reaction is to remember. And her reaction to remembering is to flee.

"Please — wait," Blake pleads, and whatever panic Blue is feeling must have shown on her face, because Blake's face looks panicked, too. "I just — I just want to talk."

Blue says nothing, cannot think of anything to say. She is ready to disappear at the drop of a pin, and yet only capable of staring at the man in front of her, a man named Blake whose eyes are the only thing she recognizes about him, eyes that are the color of clay and wide and fearful, the same as the night she's forgotten but not forgotten.

He looks away from her, staring at the shelves behind the bar, where the bottles of alcohol are lined up like memories to be thrown away. "If you want — I mean. I know that, you. After I — well…" he trails off, and Blue does not recognize his voice, either, does not recognize how it cracks like broken glass. He turns his eyes down to his shoes. Blue follows him — they are navy blue sneakers with navy blue laces, even though Blake has always worn loafers and never worn sneakers.

"I won't stop you. If you don't. You know," he says. Blue notices, now, that he's standing off to her side. His hands are buried inside his pockets. There is a clear path from Blue to the door. If she wants, she doesn't think Blake could stop her. If she wants, she could leave. If she wants. Blue doesn't know what she wants. She looks at Blake. His hair is disheveled, more than usual; his attempts at shaving have been halfhearted. He slumps, a little. He looks tired. Maybe he is tired. Blue is tired, too.

The bartender interrupts them. "What'll it be, sir?" she asks Blake.

Blake startles. He looks at the bartender, deer-like. "Um. I, I'm not —"

Blue decides for him. "Double shot of vodka, neat," she says, and turns away from Blake in the same breath. The bartender looks between the two of them for the briefest of moments. She nods, then vanishes. She does not bother asking Blue whether she wants another: her cosmopolitan remains untouched.

Far away, the air is alive with murmurs and laughter. Around them, there is nothing. Briefly, she hears Blake slide himself onto the barstool next to her. Then there is silence again. He says nothing, like a ghost. Blue says nothing, like a ghost, back. Blue cannot decide whether to look at her drink or at the bar. She already knows where not to look.

The bartender wordlessly reappears. She deposits a small glass of vodka in front of Blake, then wordlessly departs. Blue can see Blake out of the corner of her eye. He only barely inclines his head in a gesture of thanks. He does not reach for his glass. He rests his arms on the bartop instead, hunched over it as if the barstool alone isn't enough to support his weight. The two of them sit at the bar, next to each other and apart, silent like stones.

Blake finally ventures a question. "How are you?"

Blue bristles. "I'm drinking alone at a bar in a foreign city. What do you think?"

"You're right. That was stupid. Sorry," Blake says. He wrings his hands. The silence returns. Blue occupies herself by counting the bottles lined up on the shelf behind the bar. She can't get beyond six without losing track of her thoughts. Eventually, she stops trying. It takes far too much effort.

"What do you want?" she sighs.

Blake seems to struggle for an answer. "I don't know," he admits.

"You don't know?" Blue scoffs. "I thought Interpol officers were supposed to be prepared."

Blake winces. "I'm not here with Interpol."

"I've heard that one before."

Blake winces again. He hunches over his drink. "Really, I'm not. But it's fine. I won't ask you to believe me. I couldn't ask you to believe me. Not after…" Blake trails off. He turns his glass of vodka in his hands, and says nothing else.

"So, what, then?" Blue says, with a barb that would be sharper if she didn't feel so exhausted. "You don't take vacations. Did Interpol exile you to Kalos or something?"

Blake forces a wan smile. "Hah. That's about right."

Blue allows her gaze to drift over to Blake, now fixated on turning his glass of vodka between his fingers. Once, then again, and again, and again once more. Blue looks back over to her own glass.

"I've been put on leave. There's a review. And then…" he pauses. His glass stops moving. "Well, Y thinks I'll be fired. I've never had reason to doubt her before. Why start now?"

Blue can't think of anything to say. She settles on what is expected of her. "I'm sorry," she says. It is less than sincere, and yet it is more than perfunctory.

"Don't be," Blake tells her.

"It _is_ because of me."

Blake shakes his head. "Maybe. I don't know. It doesn't matter."

"I thought you would take it harder."

"I thought so, too. I thought I knew. But…" He shakes his head, again. "I guess there are lots of things I don't know, anymore."

Blue finds herself nodding in understanding. She folds a corner of her cocktail napkin. "Mmm."

The conversation slips away. Blue glances down the bar. Two women have just slipped off their barstools, holding hands, making their way to the door. The bartender stands all the way at the other end of the bar, and she glances briefly at them before turning back to mix a drink for a man sitting alone. Blue wonders how the pair of them must look to her or to anyone, whether Blake and Blue look like strangers or a couple, as if they were one or the other. They have only ever been both.

"Silver's worried about you."

Blue allows her eyes to close for a moment. She reaches for her glass, for something to hold on to. "Tell him I'm sorry."

Blake grimaces. "I… really can't."

"Hm?"

"He made it abundantly clear that if we ever met again, he would skin me alive."

For the first time in a while, Blue manages something close enough to a laugh. "That sounds like him, all right."

"You should send him something. Let him know you're okay," Blake carries on. He taps his thumb nervously against the top of the bar. "…He really cares about you."

Blue smiles sadly. "He always has. I can never repay him for his kindness. Silver deserves the world."

"He said the same thing about you," Blake says. His thumb continues its dance, until Blake seemingly realizes what he's doing and stops mid-tap. "I'm glad. That you have somebody who cares about you like that."

"People in my line of work — one way or the other, we don't keep friends long. You don't go into the thievery business to make friends." Blue says nothing else for a moment. "There aren't many people in the world who can bring themselves to care about a thief."

Blake stares down into his glass of vodka. "I couldn't," he finally says, so quiet that the words fade into the bartop. He leans his head down, peering at the counter, as if searching for them again. "I thought if I didn't think about it, it would all work out. That all I had to do was tell myself that I was Blake and you were Blue, and that was all we were, and that was all we'd ever be. I tried to ignore everything else — couldn't let myself think about what would happen if Black No. 2 and The Water Thief ever met. I told myself they never would. And I never thought about what I'd do if they did." Blake pauses, seemingly to consider his vodka more closely. "I'm sorry. I never thought — I should've known it would be impossible to keep things that way forever."

"What happened to making the impossible possible?" Blue says, but there is no heat behind it. It is only a question that Blue has turned over in her head, again and again, like a coin with the same front and back.

Blake smiles wanly. "I was young and foolish."

Blue smiles wanly back. "Aren't we all."

Blake manages a half-hearted, self-deprecating chuckle. "Me, more than anybody. All the people I spent my time running after didn't care about anything but themselves. That's what I knew. I didn't realize what it was like to have somebody who cared about you. I didn't realize what it was like to care. I didn't realize until I threw it away."

Blue says nothing in response. She only watches as Blake falls silent and focuses his attention on his glass. She returns her gaze to her untouched glass and the napkin beneath it. She has run out of corners to fold.

Seemingly struck by an impulse, Blake takes his glass of vodka in his hand. He drinks it all in a single go, as if it's the last drink he'll ever have, and after a moment, closes his eyes and sets the glass back down on the bar with a sigh.

"So, thank you," she hears Blake say, finally.

Blue doesn't look at him. "For what?"

Blake doesn't look at her, either. He stares down at his empty glass. "For… you know," he says, and shakes his head, as if the question is unanswerable and that single, solitary movement is all he knows. It doesn't matter. In spite of everything, Blue understands all that he means.

"This is yours. I want you to have it," Blake suddenly announces. Blue looks toward the top of the bar next to her, and Blake slides a small oaken box toward her. It is unadorned and unremarkable. It could be like any other wooden box, except for what was once inside it, except for the person it was meant for.

"You kept the box?" Blue can't help but wonder aloud.

Blake's eyes are downcast. "The thought didn't occur to me until I spoke to Lady Berlitz. It seemed strange, at first. The Lustrous Orb was so shiny and flashy, and the box containing it was so simple and understated. They didn't go together at all. That's when I knew you meant the box for me." Blake frowns with effort, as if he'd forgotten the memory entirely, and needed to make the mental deductions again for the very first time. "I was so caught up in the fact that the orb was forged — I pushed it out of my mind. I tried not to think about it. Not when I spoke that day to Lady Berlitz, and not that night in the hotel room. I tried. But once you know something, you know it. My mind wouldn't let me forget about it. I couldn't stop knowing — knowing that you meant the box was for me to keep.

"But now? Now, I —" Blake cuts himself off with a deep sigh. He shakes his head a single time.

"This is yours. I want you to have it," he repeats with finality. He looks Blue in the eyes for the first time that night, and for the first time that night, Blue sees a flicker of someone she recognizes. "Will you take it?"

Blue tears her gaze away from him. Her eyes settle on the box, sitting halfway between them on the bar. It is exactly as Blake said — simple and understated, a rich mahogany that, without something inside to make it shine, seems to disappear into the counter of the dimly lit bar.

Blue places a hand on the box. She nudges it only the slightest bit closer to her, and when that task is finished, she turns away from Blake and does not say anything more, because there is nothing more to say.

She hears Blake exhale — whether from relief or exhaustion or something else, Blue cannot tell, and she spends so much time thinking about it that she does not notice that Blake has slipped off his barstool until he has already done so. He is now standing exactly where he stood before, when he first approached Blue at the bar and Blue did not recognize him, and Blue looks at him where he stands and realizes that she still does not recognize him, not completely.

"Thank you for the drink. And… for everything," he says. Blue's eyes wander once again down to his shoes, because they are the farthest from his face and because she does not know what she wants to say to a person who hurt her, a person who she hurt, a person who is apologetic and grateful and uncertain, a person who, after everything, is still Blake.

Blake scuffs his shoe against the floor, once. "I won't ask you for anything more." He looks past her, somewhere far away. Blue watches him, in his navy blue sneakers and star-patterned polo shirt, him with his disheveled hair and tired eyes and slightly slumped back. Blue watches him, and in the instant that Blake says, "Goodbye," in that instant, Blue shakes her head, and says back to him, "No."

Blake looks back at her with wondering eyes, and Blue shakes her head again.

"Not goodbye," she corrects him. "A new beginning."

Blake stares at her a long moment. And Blue has seen Blake's eyes before, reddish-brown eyes the color of clay, eyes that have been dulled by exhaustion and sharpened by wit, eyes that have been clouded by fear and lust and regret. Blue has seen all these things, but in that moment, Blake's eyes soften in a way that until now, Blue has not seen.

"A new beginning."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do people use alcohol for things other than awkward conversations about relationships? Asking for a friend of the main characters.


	19. Stealing a New Beginning

Blake steps onto the sidewalk with a pair of grocery bags dangling from his hands. Another pair, without handles, is cradled carefully atop his arms. They are tall enough that the bottom half of his vision is obscured by brown paper, and weighty enough that the tingling in his fingertips is starting to make Blake regret putting off his grocery shopping.

Fortunately, the weather is that of a cool late September morning, and Blake does not have far to walk. In Hearthome City, everything is within walking distance of everything else. It is a far cry from the alleys and subway systems that wind and stretch through Castelia City like hamster tunnels, a place where it feels as though you can only ever get to where you're going by running. For the people in Hearthome City, walking is enough.

More from repetition than from observation, Blake turns right. The street is a small one, with a mix of residential and commercial buildings that Blake can name by memory: first is the home of sisters Lydia and Louise Devereux, who bake apple pies (delicious) and mixed berry cakes (to be avoided at all costs); next is the flower shop run by kindly old Mrs. White, recently widowed, who will talk Blake's ear off if he lets her but is the only place in the entire city that sells snapdragons; then there is the coffee shop with the second-story window that looks out over Amity Square, and that Blake frequents so often on rainy days that the entire staff now knows him and his cinnamon-and-nutmeg cappuccino by name; and there is the computer repair store owned by stern, mustachioed Mr. Castelan and his earnest teenage employee Alex, who says the job is only temporary, but who Blake knows without asking has run away from home, just as Blake knows without asking that he is absolutely never to discuss it.

Blake grunts. His fingers are starting to go numb, and he readjusts the pair of grocery bags dangling from his hands. The movement jostles the other pair of bags cradled in his arms. Blake hastens to reposition them before the cans of soup inside spill out onto the street. Luckily, Black & White Investigative Consultancy is next.

Unluckily, Blake has forgotten his key. Blake realizes with a groan. He allows his head to fall against his front door. The door makes a muffled and very solid-sounding _whump_.

"Mr. Blake? Is something the matter?"

Blake opens his eyes. He looks down the street. "Lady Berlitz?" he wonders. "You're early."

Platinum finishes crossing the distance between them. She peers at Blake's grocery bags. Blake self-consciously readjusts them with a rustle. "It is just so. My lunch has been postponed until tomorrow. With no other immediate obligations, I thought it would be most efficient to arrive at my appointment early," she says. She finally makes an approving nod, and Blake feels relieved in spite of himself that he has somehow passed her impromptu secret test. She turns her gaze upward and gives a momentary frown. "I trust I am not intruding?"

"No — it's all right. I was only picking up some things for the office," Blake reassures her. He attempts to gesture with the paper bags in his arms, only to hear the cans rattle ominously inside. He scrambles to readjust his grip. "Or, I would be, if I hadn't locked myself out."

"Then it seems I am perfectly punctual," Platinum says with a giggle. "Please, permit me to assist you." She slides past Blake, withdraws a key from inside her coat, unlocks the door, and leads the way inside.

"I must say, I am gratified that you have found such use for these rooms," Platinum carries on, flicking the lights on and holding the door open for Blake to pass. Once Blake has successfully made it inside, she crosses over to the front window and raises the blinds with a flourish. The gentle October sunlight blankets the room. "Once I made the decision to no longer actively contest a contest," — and here Platinum pauses with a light laugh at her wordplay — "I found that I could no longer fully actualize the full spectrum of possibilities for this space. However, I could not bring myself to simply give it up."

Blake shunts his bags of groceries on top of the kitchenette counter. He can finally feel his fingers again. "It's lucky for me, at least. I wouldn't have had a place to rent if you didn't."

"You need not be so modest. That you and your talents are here is good for a great many people," Platinum tells him. Blake absently nods. He bends down behind the counter, stacking the cans of tuna and boxes of pasta underneath. When Y told him she'd be including "quick and dirty" recipes along with her letters, Blake had been skeptical. He had never considered himself much of a cook — he had no time, and more importantly, no talent. Y nevertheless insisted that "even someone like you could do it." She had been right, of course. Nor would Blake ever tell her that. He knew she knew anyway.

"In point of fact," Platinum carries on, voice closer. Blake can tell without looking that she is standing across the counter from him. "From this very spot, you are accomplishing far more for the world than I was ever able to."

Blake finishes unloading the groceries. He stands. "I'm glad you think so."

"You disagree?"

"I spent half the day yesterday wandering around Route 209, looking for a kid's Shinx."

"And did you not find him?"

"…Yeah," Blake belatedly affirms.

"And was it not thanks to your skills that such a reunion was possible?"

"All I did was talk to people in town and follow some tracks," Blake huffs. "You're acting like I saved the world."

"But you see, Mr. Blake, that Shinx was that girl's whole world," Platinum says, earnestly, as though speaking quickly enough could sweep Blake up in her conviction. "And how happy she was, to be reunited with her friend! You cannot deny that you are responsible for the smiles on their faces."

Talia had been bawling her eyes out from the very first moment she and her mother walked through the door. She sniffled while Blake offered the pair of them tea, and hiccuped while her mother described Sparky's looks and habits. She nearly burst into tears again when Blake asked where she had last seen him. Her eyes were those of a child whose cherished stuffed animal had been stolen; her mother's were those of an adult who knew they could not afford another.

And when Blake turned up at their apartment door five hours later, scruffy and scratched up and with a Shinx named Sparky in tow, Blake had never seen a smile so wide as when Sparky sprinted through the open door and leapt into Talia's elated arms. He had never heard a voice so relieved as when Talia's mother whispered her gratitude and asked how much was owed, and when Blake told her that all expenses were already provided for, she pressed a pair of notes into his hands anyway.

"It was only a girl and her Shinx," Blake insists.

"And you are free to say as much," Platinum tells him. She tilts her head knowingly. "But still you smile, Mr. Blake."

Blake has no argument against that. "I'm going to get your file," he finally grunts, and turns toward the stairs.

"May I have your permission to prepare a pot of tea in the meantime?" Platinum calls out after him.

"Go ahead," Blake shouts back, already halfway up the staircase. He jiggles the doorknob to the bedroom at the top of the stairs. The term "bedroom" is a bit of a stretch — he's filled it with bookcases and filing cabinets and a sturdy desk that make it more of an office. There is, in fact, a bed, even if the bed is relegated behind a pair of folding screens, and even if the bed is actually a couch. It is close enough to meet the technical requirements of "bedroom," at least in Blake's opinion.

He doesn't bother turning the lights on. He knows where almost everything in the room is without needing to search, most of all Platinum's file, which he has reviewed more times than he can count. After all, he spends more time here than anywhere else in the apartment, reviewing clients' files and doing research, sometimes at his desk and sometimes on the couch, sometimes with a cup of coffee and sometimes falling asleep with a book lying open atop his chest. The thought makes him smile a bit. Many things can change in six months, Blake supposes, but at least one thing still hasn't.

Blake opens his desk drawer. It slides open easily. Blake reaches for Platinum's file, and would have sworn louder if he didn't bite his tongue first.

He hastily fumbles for his desk lamp. The yellow light illuminates the drawer. Inside is Platinum's file, exactly as Blake remembers it, manila and filled with sheafs of paper with Blake's notes. That is not what catches his attention. It is what sits atop it: a small, mahogany box. That is exactly as Blake remembers it, too.

Blake automatically reaches for it. Then he catches himself. He hesitates. He doesn't know what's inside. Perhaps it is nothing. Perhaps it is everything. He remembers the time he was given this box. He remembers the time he was the one to give it away. He does not know what it means to be seeing it here, when he had never expected to see it again anywhere.

He finally reaches inside, cradling the box in his hands, and clears a space for it right in the center of his desk, in front of a pile of books. He sets it down, and does nothing but stare at it for a long while. He runs a hand across its surface. It is smooth, and recently oiled. It has been well taken care of. Blake doesn't allow himself to dwell on what that means. There are too many possibilities. He cannot possibly know all of them. He cannot possibly know how he feels about any of them.

Curiosity finally overpowers anxiety, and Blake makes to open the clasp. The top of the box opens without a sound, and Blake realizes that means the hinges have been oiled as well. Inside, carefully placed and carefully covered by a thin, nearly transparent cloth, sits a glimmering, lavender orb. That is not what catches Blake's eye. Instead, it is the small, nearly azure envelope that has been set inside. Blake swallows. He retrieves it. The envelope is sealed with a wax stamp, and when Blake slides his finger between the paper, the wax pops off. The sound seems to fill the room.

Inside is a postcard. There is a photograph on the obverse, and Blake recognizes from the ruins in the background and the pair of people playing with a Pachirisu in the foreground that it is of Amity Square. Which means that —

Blake hurriedly flips the postcard over. The loopy handwriting he would recognize anywhere stares back at him.

_Home is where the heart is, or so they say:_

_A wonderful city with skies so blue._

_If you've nothing the day after today,_

_Enjoy the sights at a table for two?_

_One o' clock, the Amity Square Café_

_Just to chat, to catch up, to see what's new._

_Stay at the office, or come if you may,_

_It's only lunch, whether or not you do._

Blake stares at the writing.

The lights flick on, and this time, Blake does manage to successfully swear.

Platinum, standing in the doorway, looks stricken. "Ah, my apologies, Mr. Blake! I did not intend to surprise you."

"No, no! Not at all! It's my fault — I wasn't paying attention."

Platinum's brow furrows. "Is everything all right?"

"H-huh?" Blake stammers.

"I had just set the kettle when I heard a loud thunk from upstairs and a noise resembling a shout," Platinum explains, glancing around the room. "I had dismissed it as nothing, but… quite a while passed, and you did not return. I thought I should check and ensure your safety."

"Oh! Well, I'm — it's, fine, I'm fine," Blake hastily insists, and judging by Platinum's wide eyes and subtle frown, he was not very convincing. Blake tries again. "Er, I just didn't turn the lights on and wound up jamming my finger in the drawer like a klutz." He shrugs, and sprinkles in a self-deprecating chuckle for good measure. "Thus, the swearing."

"I see," Platinum says. Her shoulders lift in relief. "Apologies for the intrusion — I am glad you are well."

"No need to apologize, everything's fine," Blake tells her. He hears a low whistle coming from the floor. "Isn't that your tea downstairs?"

"Ah — you are right! I must see to it immediately. Tea is not meant to be oversteeped," Platinum declares, and turns to leave.

"I'll be down in a moment," Blake calls after her. He waits until she closes the door behind her, and then waits until he hears her footsteps on the staircase, and then waits until he hears the whistle of the tea kettle downstairs fade away, and even after waiting all that time, the room is still loud with the sound of Blake's heartbeat. He flips the postcard absently between his fingers, once, then again, his mind lost in a place where only memories and dreams wander.

He finally clears his thoughts with a shake of the head. He can't keep Platinum waiting, after all. He takes Platinum's case file in hand, then closes the mahogany box with the glimmering lavender orb still inside it. He carefully returns the box to where he found it, and, after a moment of hesitation, tucks the postcard in between the pages of the book he's been reading every night before falling asleep.

Platinum is waiting in the black armchair, a cup of tea already in hand, when Blake returns downstairs. She spots him, and her face brightens.

"There you are, Mr. Blake! You bring good news, I trust?"

"Hm?" Blake wonders back. "What makes you say that?"

"It is very simple," Platinum answers, sagely. "Those delivering bad news do not smile."

Blake pauses. He ponders her words, and ponders the words on the postcard, words he's already memorized. He realizes that Platinum is right: that he is, indeed, smiling. And he realizes that he has no argument against that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! When the plot bunny for this project first burrowed its way into my brain, I only thought it would be a short thing. Then it stuck around, and I figured, I've never really written something like this before, or with multiple chapters, so let's give it a shot. And it ended up being this nine-month long ~~monster~~ endeavor that was a really good learning experience.
> 
> I think I'll be moving back toward other projects, now, and I don't anticipate continuing this in any way. To those of you who followed me on this journey: Hey, thanks! I'm grateful that you stuck with me through the hiatus and while I've been experimenting. To everyone out there on the other side of the Internet, keep reading, and keep writing.


End file.
